I! 


OF 


ETTINAvo 


TIEN 


By  BETTINA  VON  HUTTEN 


The  Bag  of  Saffron 
Mag  Pye          Bird's  Fountain 
Maria  Sharrow 

D.  APPLETON   &  COMPANY,   NEW  YORK 


or  CAIJF.  TJBIMBY.  1.0* 


"Take  them,"  she  said,  "take  them,  the  horrible,  dread- 
ful things."  [PAGE  445] 


The 

BAG  OF  SAFFRON 


BY 

BETTINA  VON  HUTTEN 

AUTHOR  o»  "MAO  PTE,"  "BIBD'S  FOUSTAIM,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED   BT 

STOCKTON  MULFORD 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  1918 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Take  them,"  she  said,  "take  them,  the  horrible, 

dreadful  things" Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"He  was  too  handsome  to  be  anything  but  bad,"  she 

declared 10 

He  dropped  his  portmanteau  and  held  her  close 

against  his  well-worn  old  coat 156 

"You  must  come,"  he  said,  "my  little  Nicoleta"     .     326 


2130427 


PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  little  old  house,  which,  although  it  was  some 
six  hundred  feet  above  sea-level,  yet  lay  in  a 
hollow,  was,  seen  eye  to  eye,  just  one  of  hundreds 
of  old  Yorkshire  moorland  houses. 

Like  them  it  was  square-built  and  low;  like  theirs,  its 
windows  were  too  small  to  satisfy  people  of  our  day ;  but 
one  has  an  odd  feeling  that  to  such  houses  people  of  our 
day  matter  as  little  as  people  of  yesterday  now  lying  in 
the  churchyard. 

These  rough-built  old  dwellings  have  an  air  of  staid 
durability,  of  disregarding  the  flight  of  time,  which  so 
nearly  leaves  them  untouched  in  their  great  solidity. 
They  are  a  part  of  the  soil  out  of  which  they  are  dug. 

Thus  Roseroofs,  seen  from  the  level,  was  an  unimpos- 
ing,  commonplace,  old  building  likeable  only  for  the  sake 
of  the  wide-spread,  lavish  garden  in  which  it  stood;  its 
triumph  came  when  the  observer  looked  down  at  it. 

The  winding  road,  after  a  long,  lazy,  coiling  progress 
through  the  dale,  was  met  at  the  third  of  the  Warcop 
bridges  by  a  tributary  which,  in  its  turn,  climbed  the  hill 
towards  the  edge  in  great  bold  laps  that  passed  the 
house.  And  from  any  point  of  the  road  above  the  house, 
the  glory  and  beauty  of  the  old  place  revealed  itself, — its 
roofs. 

Ample,  generous  roofs  they  were,  the  great  middle  one 
surrounded  by  the  smaller  ones  of  the  stable  and  out- 
houses ;  and  the  deep  rose-color  that  must  have  been  too 
brilliant  when  they  and  George  II  were  newly  on  their 
thrones,  had  been  chastened  by  time  into  a  lovely  dim- 

3 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ness  which  was  further  beautified  by  a  mosaic  of  lichens, 
mosses,  and  burly  bunches  of  tough  stonecrop,  thus  seem- 
ing to  claim  kinship  with  the  neighboring  moors,  rather 
than  with  the  uneven,  cream-washed  walls  they  topped. 

Miss  Flora  and  Miss  Effie  Plues  were  very  proud  of 
their  roofs,  which  had  been  brought  up  by  carrier  from 
the  south  to  embellish  the  dour-looking  dwelling  for  their 
grandfather's  bride,  an  Essex  maid ;  and  high  up  amongst 
the  heather,  close  against  the  sky,  they  had  had  built, 
many  years  before,  a  stout  stone  bench  from  which  their 
rare  visitors  might  have  a  good  view  of  the  object  of  their 
innocent  vain-glory.  Owing  to  the  effects  of  weather  on 
its  rough  surface,  the  bench  had  long  since  been  painted 
a  vivid  green  and  the  Green  Bench  was  known  as  a  land- 
mark by  everybody  for  miles  around. 

The  view  from  it  was  very  beautiful.  Two  fair,  flowing 
dales  lay  below  and  where  they  joined,  sloping  together 
from  their  secret  heights  in  a  pleasant  way  as  of  two 
people  smiling  as  they  meet,  three  old  bridges  spanned  a 
rushing  stream  which,  just  below  the  last  one,  plunged 
noisily  and  foamingly  over  a  high  jut  of  rock  and  then 
settled  for  a  little  into  an  almost  circular  pool  of  vivid 
green,  quiet  water  where  rushes  grew ;  and  pleasant  green 
meadows  of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  inexorably  and  inhos- 
pitably divided  by  high  walls  of  heather-colored  stone, 
stretched  away  up  on  all  sides  to  the  brown  and  purple 
moors  to  whose  ultimate  edges  the  sky  seemed  to  come 
very  near. 

Westward  up  Wiskedale  beyond  the  beck  that  met  the 
river  at  High  Warcop  bridge,  half  stretched  a  desultory 
way  up  the  slope  towards  the  largest  of  the  deserted  lead- 
mines  on  Ay  cliff e  Head,  lay  the  village  of  Widdybank,  a 
square  church  tower  rising  from  the  dark  mass  of  the 
trees  that  grew  in  a  double  row  outside  the  churchyard 
wall. 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

The  Widdybank  church  tower  and  the  bright  white 
splash  that  was  Thornby  Lodge,  halfway  up  Cotherside, 
beyond  Warcop,  were  the  two  chief  points  of  departure 
for  the  investigating  eye. 

"Ye  see  yon  white  house ;  that's  Judge  Capel's  shooting 
lodge.  Well,  off  to  t'  left"— or :  "Halfway  up  Laverock, 
in  a  direct  line  with  t'  old  church  tower" — thus  was  the 
stranger  taught  the  topography  of  the  place.  There 
were  naturally  other  points  by  which  one's  eyes  found 
their  way;  there  was  Aycliffe  Head,  a  hill  whose  crest, 
made  uneven  on  the  south  side  by  a  heavy  fall  of  rocks 
some  time  in  Queen  Anne's  day,  stood  out  sharply  against 
the  west  in  a  kind  of  grotesque  profile ;  there  was  Watlass 
Mill,  a  large,  orange-colored  building  in  Cotherdale,  where 
the  road  to  Middleton  turned  sharply  to  the  left  and  was 
for  a  while  lost  to  view ;  there  was  Widdybank  Bottom,  a 
small  wood  in  Wiskedale  on  the  near  side  of  the  river, 
just  opposite  the  village  church. 

A  fine  and  noble  view,  to  bring  content  to  the  eyes  and 
the  restfulness  of  all  spacious  and  beautiful  places  to  the 
heart. 

One  June  evening,  not  many  years  ago,  the  two  Misses 
Flues  had  climbed  the  steep  path  from  their  house  to  the 
Green  Bench  and  were  sitting  in  that  place  of  pilgrimage 
discussing  a  domestic  event  whose  importance  had  cer- 
tainly never  been  overtopped  in  their  simple  lives. 

The  Bench  stood  about  ten  feet  back  from  the  edge  of 
the  little  niche  in  the  moor  which  the  sisters,  after  weeks  of 
heart-searching  discussion,  had  selected  for  its  site,  and 
the  years  that  had  passed  since  its  completion  had  suf- 
ficed to  make  of  the  man-hollowed  half-circle  behind  it  a 
thing  of  beauty. 

Tufted,  irregularly-placed  clumps  of  grass  covered  the 
greater  part  of  its  earthen  nakedness.  A  flat-leafed 
creeper  had  festooned  its  upper  edge,  and  in  the  deeper 

5 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

recesses  of  the  little  excavation  flowers  grew  in  all  the 
seasons  with  singular  abundance.  Just  now  purple-red 
cranesbill,  and  a  thick-growing  yellow  flower  of  glossy 
leaf  caught  the  red  glow  of  the  westering  sun  and  shone 
bravely  back  at  it  as  it  slid  down  the  sky  towards  Aycliffe 
Head. 

Above  the  hollow  stretched  the  open  moor,  at  that 
moment  glowing  with  the  rich  color  that  it  reveals  only 
at  evening,  and  full  of  half-unfurled  fern  painting  it  with 
a  clear  green  that  at  that  hour  almost  melted  to  gold. 
Below  the  Green  Bench  the  winding  path  by  which  the 
two  ladies  had  reached  their  eyrie  seemed  to  leap  down- 
wards like  a  small,  pebbly  torrent;  indeed,  but  for  the 
lack  of  water,  its  stony  way  was  precisely  like  that  of  a 
tiny  hillside  beck,  and  further  down,  below  the  beloved  rose- 
colored  roofs  now,  in  the  beautifying  sunset  light,  in  their 
second  most  splendid  hour  of  the  twenty-four — their  most 
splendid  hour  was  that  of  sunrise — lay  spread  both  dales. 

Off  to  the  left,  a  window  in  Thornby  Lodge  blazed  away 
as  if  on  fire  and  the  dim,  gray-brown  roofs  of  Warcop 
huddled  together  in  an  early  darkness  unknown  to  the 
heights. 

For  some  time  Miss  Flora  and  Miss  Effie  sat  silent, 
gazing  with  eyes  that  saw  little  of  the  familiar  beauties  of 
their  home  place.  Miss  Flora,  sitting  down,  with  her 
pink-flowered  muslin  gown  gracefully  settled  round  her, 
a  mushroom-shaped,  rose-decked  hat  tilted  over  her 
nose — Miss  Flora  hated  sunburn — was,  though  not 
young,  a  pretty  woman;  pretty  in  a  way  that  to  a  sym- 
pathetic observer  was  not  without  pathos.  There  was 
pathos  in  her  very  name,  for  in  her  youth  it  must  have 
suited  her  deliciously;  in  her  day  she  must  have  been  a 
most  flower-like  maiden,  and  now  in  her  middle-age  she 
was  still  like  a  flower,  but  like  one  that  has  been  pressed 
in  a  book. 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

She  was  thin  almost  to  invisibility,  but  the  pathos  lay 
somehow  in  her  sweet,  faded,  rather  high-nosed  little 
face.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  velvety  dark  blue  and  one  saw 
clearly,  by  the  close  clinging  to  them  of  her  delicately 
wrinkled  lids,  that  the  globes  of  her  eyes  were  unusually 
large  and  set  a  little  loosely  in  her  head.  The  youth 
had  so  irrevocably  departed  from  her  skin  that  the  child- 
like, unfaded  blue  of  the  irises,  and  the  skimmed-milk  color 
of  her  eyeballs,  gave  a  pang  to  some  sympathetic  people. 
In  mercy  to  the  sensitive  beholder  these  things  should 
have  grown  old  with  the  rest  of  her,  and  this  they  had  not 
done. 

Her  delicate  chin  had  lost  its  unwavering  line,  but 
there  was  no  ugly  sagging  to  lament,  and  her  slightly 
sunken,  coral-pink  mouth  revealed  little  square  teeth  that 
still  flashed  when  she  laughed. 

Mr.  Burns,  the  chemist  at  Middleton,  alone  could  have 
told  what  an  expenditure  of  money  and  care  this  flash 
cost  its  owner,  but  then  Mr.  Burns — his  mother  was  a 
Watlass — never  mentioned  Miss  Flora's  hesitating,  shy, 
bold  visits  to  his  shop  in  the  Market  Place,  nor  her  short- 
sighted, nervous,  excited  investigation  of  the  low  glass 
case  at  the  left  of  the  door,  where  he  kept  all  his  tooth- 
powders,  washes  and  pastes. 

And  as  the  tall,  thin  lady  left  the  shop,  springing  along 
over  the  cobble-stones  in  her  odd,  bounding  way — the 
way  in  which  the  goddess  Flora  might  have  half-skipped 
over  the  grass  in  her  flower-strewing  moments — she  al- 
ways took  with  her  in  her  green-lined  rush  basket  at  least 
one  of  the  latest  products  of  the  teeth-beautifying  in- 
dustry. 

Miss  Effie  was  very  different.  She  was  two  years 
younger  than  her  sister  but  looked  to  careless  eyes  five 
years  older;  a  short,  pony-built  woman,  with  oily  black 
hair  that  clung  close  to  her  head,  a  weather-beaten,  dark 

7 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

skin  and  teeth  that  were  her  own  only  by  right  of  purchase 
and  long  possession. 

Miss  Effie,  that  June  evening,  wore  a  short  gray  skirt 
of  some  unpropitious  woollen  material  and  a  stiffly 
starched  blouse  made  very  like  a  man's  shirt.  Its  high 
collar  held  up  her  little,  brown  chin  in  a  way  that  Iqpked 
extremely  uncomfortable,  and  its  austerities  were  made 
more  conspicuous  by  a  scarlet  tie  that  was  drawn  very 
tight  at  its  base  and  hung  down  on  her  hard-looking 
breast.  Someone  once  said,  in  describing  and  differen- 
tiating the  two  sisters,  that  their  natures  were  explained 
to  the  discerning  eye  by  the  fact  that,  whereas  Miss  Effie 
in  profile  showed  the  average  feminine  curve  from  chin  to 
waist  and  Miss  Flora  was  if  anything  a  little  concave,  yet 
Miss  Flora's  poor  breast  in  some  indescribable  way  looked 
the  more  feminine,  the  better  adapted  to  pillow  a  sorrow- 
ful head.  However  that  may  be  and  no  matter  how  they 
differed  in  character,  the  two  ladies,  though  they  possessed 
not  only  the  reserve  and  silence  of  most  people  who,  with- 
out children's  faces  about  them,  dwell  in  high  places  and 
alone,  but  also  the  almost  tangible  Yorkshire  shyness,  were 
devoted  sisters. 

But  although  they  loved  each  other,  and  had  spent  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  their  lives  under  the  same  roof, 
neither  of  them,  when  unhappy,  ever  confided  in  the  other. 
They  were  very  Northern  in  their  little  austerities.  Miss 
Effie  was  unsmiling  and  as  monosyllabic  as  possible  with 
strangers,  and  Miss  Flora's  little,  soft  giggle  and  gentle, 
fluttering  ways  covered  a  reserve  as  iron  as  her  sister's ; 
and  now  in  this,  their  hour  of  extreme  perplexity,  when 
they  had  come  to  the  Green  Bench  for  the  purpose  of 
discussing  their  problem,  they  sat  side  by  side  for  almost 
half  an  hour  in  complete  silence. 

The  letter  had  arrived  only  two  hours  before;  it  had 
been  brought  up  from  Warcop  by  Esther  Oughtenshaw, 

8 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

their  old  servant — her  mother  was  a  Watlass — who  had 
chanced,  through  a  sudden  need  for  a  new  frying-pan,  to 
go  down  after  lunch  on  Monday  of  all  days.  Miss  Effie 
had  read  the  letter  and  handed  it  to  Miss  Flora  in  silence, 
after  which  each  lady  went  to  her  own  room  and  stayed 
there  for  some  time  behind  a  closed  door.  At  tea  they 
said  nothing  about  the  news,  but  at  last  Miss  Flora,  set- 
ting down  her  untouched  cup,  asked  tentatively : 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  walk  up  to  the  Green 
Bench,  Effie  ?"  And  in  unbroken  silence  they  had  climbed 
the  steep  path  and  sat  down. 

Finally  someone  walking  along  the  Edge  a  hundred  feet 
above  them  broke  the  silence  that  both  felt  almost  as  if 
it  were  a  tangible  thing,  by  startling  a  peewit  who 
flew  down  the  hillside  uttering  its  wearying,  raucous 
cry. 

"That  will  be  Thomas  John  Skelton  driving  his  cows 
home  to  Flaye.  It  must  be  six,  Flora." 

Miss  Effie's  voice  was  a  little  harsh  and  had  a  queer 
break  in  it ;  it  was  a  voice  that  seemed  to  suit  her  plain, 
dark  face  with  its  nearly  meeting  eyebrows  and  its  faded, 
raspberry-colored  lips. 

Miss  Flora  raised  her  gloved  hands  and  dropped  them 
limply  on  her  lap.  After  a  minute  she  exclaimed,  "Effie, 
what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  do  now ;  we  cannot  turn  him  away 
from  the  door,  can  we  ?  I  have  told  Esther  to  get  a  room 
ready." 

"Perhaps,"  Miss  Flora  said  after  a  pause,  her  troubled 
voice  sounding,  with  its  queer  little  tinkle,  almost  like  a 
child's,  "he  won't  die  after  all.  He  may  get  better  in 
this  air." 

Miss  Effie  laughed  unmusically.  "Yes,  that  would  be 
just  like  him." 

"Oh,  Effie,  even  Robert  could  not  help  dying !" 

9 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"I  mean,"  Miss  Effie  returned,  in  a  weighty  and  relent- 
less voice,  "that  it  would  be  just  like  him  to  live." 

Miss  Flora  did  not  answer  but  her  dim  little  face 
changed  almost  imperceptibly.  "You  never  liked  him, 
Effie ;  you  were  never  quite  fair,  I  think " 

Miss  Effie  frowned.  "No,"  she  said,  "I  did  not  like 
him,  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  this.  Besides,  he 
did  not  care  whether  I  liked  him  or  not,  for  there  were 
others  who  did." 

To  Miss  Flora's  face  came  something  very  transitory, 
almost  unnoticeable,  something  between  a  wince  and  a 
smile,  but  she  was  silent  and  Miss  Effie  went  on: 

"He  sa}rs  that  he  is  dying  and  that  he  is  coming  to  us. 
That  implies,  if  I  know  Robert  Blundell  at  all,  that  he  is 
coming  to  give  us  the  pleasure  of  his  dying  in,  and  being 
buried  from,  our  house.  That  is  bad,  but,  as  I  have  sug- 
gested, he  might  do  worse." 

"Oh,  Effie!" 

Miss  Effie  looked  gloomily  at  her  sister,  her  opaque 
eyes  curiously  empty  of  light. 

"I  am  sorry,  Flora;  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you;  of 
course  you  never  saw  through  him,  you  never  see  through 
anyone,  and  naturally  you  do  not  see  through  him.  And 
I— did!" 

Again  the  strange,  half-flinching  quiver  touched  Miss 
Flora's  lips,  but  instead  of  speaking  she  rose  and  with 
her  peculiar  skimming  step  walked  away  and  stood  at  the 
edge  of  the  slope. 

"I  may  not  have  seen  through  him — as  you  say,  I  am 
not  observant,"  she  said  after  a  moment's  silence.  "Poor 
Bob!" 

Miss  Effie  coughed.  "He  was  too  handsome  to  be  any- 
thing but  bad,"  she  declared,  obviously  ending  the  dis- 
cussion so  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

Suddenly  Miss  Flora  turned  and,  clasping  her  hands, 

10 


fcuo 

C 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

held  them  up  before  her  and  began  to  speak  in  her  high- 
est pitched  voice. 

"Augustus  Csesar,  Titus  Vespasianus,  Philippe  le  Bel  of 
France,  Edward  the  Fourth  of  England,  Alcibiades  of 
Athens,  or  was  it  Aristides? — no,  he  was  the  just  one — 
were  all  great  and  good  men,  and  yet  the  most  beautiful 
men  of  their  time." 

Her  excited  triumph  attracted  the  attention  of  Miss 
Effie,  who,  used  to  her  sister's  ways,  had  relapsed  into  a 
somber  contemplation  of  the  dale. 

"How  on  earth,"  Miss  Effie  asked,  "do  you  know  about 
those  men,  Flora  Plues?" 

"Bacon,  Lord  Bacon,  Verulam,  he  said  it.  I  read  it  the 
other  day  at  the  Vicarage." 

Far  away  up  the  dale  to  the  left,  a  small  black  speck 
now  broke  the  monotony  of  the  dusty  road;  a  carriage 
of  some  kind.  Before  Miss  Effie  had  time  to  answer  Miss 
Flora  had  seen  this  speck,  and  Lord  Bacon  vanished  from 
her  mind. 

"Effie,  it  is  the  fly — look,  just  there  this  side  of  the 
Mill.  It  will  be  them !" 

Miss  Effie  rose.  "Nonsense,  he  has  no  money  to  waste 
on  flies,  and  the  carrier's  cart  is  comfortable  enough  for 
anyone.  The  train  is  not  due  till  sitf-forty-five  any- 
way." 

"Effie,  I  feel  it  is  him !" 

"You  feel  it  is  he  if  you  feel  anything,"  Miss  Effie 
returned  grimly,  "which  you  don't.  However,  he — they 
— will  be  here  by  eight,  so  we  had  better  go  down.  After 
all,  there  is  no  good  discussing  it,  we  can't  refuse  to  take 
them  in.  Come!" 

At  the  edge  of  the  path  they  both  stood  still,  looking 
at  each  other,  in  each  face  an  expectant  look. 

"Effie " 

"Flora " 

11 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Miss  Flora  gave  a  little  skip,  "No,  we  must  be  kind 
to  him  for  poor  May's  sake,  and  perhaps  he  has  im- 
proved." 

Miss  Effie  drew  her  brows  closely  together  and  pro- 
truded her  discolored  lower  lip.  "Such  men,"  she  de- 
clared, "never  improve.  However,  as  you  say,  for  poor 
May's  sake — and  then" — she  broke  off,  her  dark  face 
melting  in  an  extraordinary  way,  her  voice  gentling  al- 
most to  a  whisper,  "there  is  the  baby." 

They  made  their  way  down  the  footpath,  the  stones 
rolling  from  under  their  feet  and  clattering  against  each 
other,  Miss  Flora's  face  saddened  by  a  little  smile  that 
meant  nothing,  Miss  Effie's  settled  into  its  usual  aspect 
of  grimness. 

"I  hope,"  Miss  Flora  broke  out  suddenly  as  they  crossed 
the  road,  "that  it  will  be  fair,  like  poor  May " 

They  opened  the  little  wicket  gate,  after  crossing  a 
hundred  yards  of  common  land  that  lay  between  it  and 
the  road,  and  went  up  the  garden  path  to  the  house. 
At  the  door  under  the  rose-covered  porch,  stood  Esther 
Oughtenshaw,  their  old  servant,  waiting  for  them. 

"I  was  just  cooming  oop  to  t'  Green  Bench  to  seek 
you,  Miss  Effie,"  she  said,  holding  out  a  telegram. 
"Mary  Christie's  girl  brought  un  oop " 

Miss  Effie  took  the  telegram  and  opened  it,  although 
it  was  addressed  to  Miss  Plues  and  she  was  two  years 
younger  than  her  sister,  and  as  she  read  the  message,  Miss 
Flora  tiptoed  delicately  away  and  stooped  over  a  tree  of 
yellow  roses,  inhaling  their  scent  with  tactful  ostenta- 
tion. 

"Flora!" 

"Yes,  Effie?" 

The  two  women  stood  looking  at  each  other,  Esther 
Oughtenshaw,  her  apron  rolled  up  over  her  arms,  plainly 
waiting  for  the  news. 

12 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"You  are  right,  Flora,  they  are  coming  in  the  Red 
Dragon  fly.  It  was  they  you  saw." 

"Oh,  but  I  was  only  guessing,  Effie;  I  could  not  pos- 
sibly know,  could  I?  It  was  only  my  luck  to  be  right!" 
Miss  Flora  constantly  referred  to  her  luck  though  no 
one  could  have  said  of  what  it  consisted. 

To  this  small  apology  Miss  Effie  vouchsafed  no 
acknowledgment.  She  turned  to  Esther,  whose  red,  old 
face  was  alight  with  an  interest  she  naturally  shared 
with  her  two  mistresses,  and  gave  some  hasty  orders. 
A  moment  later  she  turned  to  her  sister  and  asked  her 
not  snappishly,  not  sourly,  but  with  a  curious  lack  of 
tenderness,  why  she  was  cutting  roses  from  Father's 
rose-tree. 

Miss  Flora,  who  had  taken  off  her  hood,  and  whose 
bright,  brindled  hair  was  shining  like  silver  in  the  sun, 
tripped  to  the  far  side  of  the  rose  bush  and  bent  over  it, 
thus  not  looking  at  Miss  Effie. 

"I  think — I  remember  he  used  to  like  Father's  roses," 
she  murmured. 

Miss  Effie  gave  a  slight  grunt  and  went  indoors. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  ladies,  issuing  from  their  rooms, 
both  of  which  lay  at  the  front  of  the  house,  met  in  the 
broad  corridor;  Miss  Flora  was  all  in  white;  Miss  Effie 
had  smoothed  her  hair  and  washed  her  face  and  hands, 
but  she  still  wore  the  gray  skirt  and  the  hard,  unbecom- 
ing shirt  with  the  cut-throat  collar. 

"Your  new  gown,  Flora!" 

Poor  Miss  Flora  blushed  and  twiddled  her  dry  old 
fingers,  on  which,  in  a  very  mild  way,  sparkled  several 
old-fashioned  rings.  "I  thought  it  would  look  more  hos- 
pitable," she  protested. 

"It  does,  oh,  it  undoubtedly  does  that!"  returned  the 
other  as  they  went  down  the  shining  shallow  stairs,  past 
the  plaster  bust  of  Lord  Byron  on  the  window-seat,  "and 

13 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

what  is  more,  he  would  be  flattered,  oh,  aye,  flattered  that 
you  would  wish  to  look  your  best  for  him.  He  will  also 
see,"  she  added,  a  note  of  venom  in  her  voice,  "that  I — 
didn't." 

"I  don't  think,"  Miss  Flora  answered  gently,  "that  he 
ever  thought  you  wanted  to  look  your  best  for  him, 
Effie." 

"I  am  sure  he  never  did — hark!"  she  broke  off  in  a 
different  voice,  "do  you  hear  it — that  will  be  they!" 

At  that  moment  Esther  Oughtenshaw  came  out  of  her 
kitchen,  clattering  over  the  stone  floor  of  the  hall. 

"Miss  Effie,  Miss  Flora,  it's  cooming!  It's  just  at  t' 
old  may-tree!  I  can  see  from  the  kitchen  window " 

"Please  return  to  the  kitchen,  Esther,"  Miss  Effie  an- 
swered, every  inch  the  mistress.  "When  I  need  you  I 
will  ring." 

A  few  moments  later  the  old-fashioned  fly  crept  up  past 
the  kitchen-garden  and  round  to  the  edge  of  the  green. 

"Shall  you  go  to  the  gate,  Effie?"  Miss  Flora  asked, 
fluttered  and  nervous,  but  Miss  Effie  had  gone  upstairs, 
muttering  something  about  her  handkerchief. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  it  was  Miss  Flora  and  not 
Miss  Effie  who  plucked  Cuckoo  Blundell  out  of  the  great 
thicket  of  nettles  into  which,  on  being  lifted  from  the 
fly  by  the  driver,  she  tumbled.  When  the  child,  scream- 
ing and  kicking,  and  using  language  it  was  just  as  well 
Miss  Flora  could  not  understand,  was  safely  withdrawn 
from  the  perfidious  greenery  and  lay  sobbing  in  her  arms, 
Miss  Flora  turned  to  the  fly. 

"Oh,  Robert,"  she  began,  shouting  in  a  high  key  over 
the  black  head  of  the  outraged  child — "I  am  so  sorry," 
and  she  broke  off,  for  the  skeleton-like  man  who,  wrap- 
ped in  furs,  still  sat  in  the  fly,  was  lying  back  helpless  with 
laughter. 

"Cuckoo,  Cuckoo!"  he  called  out  in  French,  between 

14 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

two  fits  of  apparently  uncontrollable  mirth.  "You  must 
not  swear,  or  your  auntie  won't  love  you." 

Miss  Flora  never  forgot  that  moment;  the  heaving, 
sobbing  little  body  in  her  arms,  the  wet  face  against 
her  own  freshly-powdered  neck,  the  grinning  flyman — 
Matthew  Christie's  son  from  Stebley  Old  Hall,  she  saw  it 
was — and,  framed  in  the  fly  window,  full  in  the  merciless 
western  light,  the  dreadful,  cadaverous  face  of  Robert 
Blundell. 

His  once  beautiful  nose  had  dwindled  to  a  waxen,  hook- 
like  thing;  his  eyes,  crinkled  with  laughter,  lay  in  deep 
hollows  that  looked  black.  Between  his  pale,  flat  lips  she 
could  see  his  yellow  teeth  with  gaps  towards  the  back, 
and  his  tongue,  pointed  and  dark-looking,  lifted  like  a 
snake's  head,  rigid  with  the  paroxysm  of  laughter. 


CHAPTER  II 

POOR  Miss  Flora  stole  away  out  of  the  house  after 
supper  and  crept  down  the  hillside  to  the  river, 
where  she  sat  under  a  may-tree  and  gave  herself 
up  to  thought.  Supper  had  been  dreadful,  although  Rob- 
ert Blundell  had  appeared  in  no  way  oppressed  by  the 
situation — he  was  a  south-country  man,  and  as  such,  of 
course,  lighter  in  spirit  and  mind  than  if  he  had  had  the 
good  fortune  to  belong  to  Yorkshire — and  his  talk  flowed 
along  in  a  steady,  shallow  stream  just  as  it  had  done  in  the 
old  days.  Conversationally,  he  had  jumped  from  Paris 
to  St.  Petersburg,  thence  to  Hyeres,  and  on  to  Spain, 
and  then,  to  settle  for  a  while,  to  Avignon  where  the  child 
had  been  born. 

"We  had  a  wee  cottage  down  by  the  river,"  he  ex- 
plained gaily,  "with  little  canal-like  threads  of  water  all 
round.  It  reminded  us  of  Holland  and  of  Venice,  and  me 
of  Japan — rather  like  living  in  a  paddy-field,  it  was." 

Miss  Flora,  her  head  on  one  side,  tried  to  look  as  if 
she  knew  all  about  the  paddy  plant  as  she  mentally  called 
it,  but  a  blunt  question  from  Miss  Effie  elicited  the  in- 
formation that  no  such  plant  existed. 

"It's  rice,  you  know,"  Blundell  explained,  "grows  in 
swamps ;  half -naked  natives  with  hats  like  big  mushrooms 
wading  about  in  it.  Oh,  not  in  Avignon,"  he  added,  an 
amused  grin  scoring  his  skull-like  face  with  deep  lines; 
"in  Japan,  that  is." 

"I  should  have  thought  that  such  excessive  damp  must 
have  been  bad  for  your  illness,"  commented  Miss  Effie 
dryly. 

16 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Through  the  open  windows  the  last  of  the  summer 
daylight  fell  full  on  the  man's  face,  so  tragic  in  its  emacia- 
tion, so  much  more  tragic  in  its  expression  of  hopefulness 
and  sociability.  Poor  Miss  Flora  could  not  eat.  Her 
thin  throat,  embellished  in  honor  of  the  guest  with  a 
string  of  facetted,  purple  rock  crystals,  worked  nerv- 
ously; something  was  preventing  her  from  swallow- 
ing. 

Miss  EfBe  ate  as  usual  though  better  than  usual,  for 
Esther  Oughtenshaw  had  made  a  little  feast  to  celebrate 
the  arrival  of  Poor  Miss  May's  Husband,  and  besides  the 
eternal  cold  mutton  that  in  the  south  would  have  been 
called  lamb,  new  potatoes  and  salad,  she  had  managed  to 
"borrow"  a  few  trout  from  Mrs.  William  Christie — who 
had  been  an  Oughtenshaw — and  the  little  beauties,  boiled 
and  with  butter  sauce,  were  greatly  enjoyed  by  the  in- 
valid. The  gooseberry-fool  caused  a  moment  of  emotion, 
for  it  was  served  in  the  little  handleless  blue-and-white 
cups  that  Blundell  remembered  as  having  been  favorites 
of  his  wife  in  her  maiden  days. 

"Ah,"  he  cried  as  he  saw  them,  "poor  May's  Chinese 
cups ;  how  she  loved  them !" 

His  feverish,  bright  eyes  closed  for  a  moment;  he 
flourished  at  them  with  an  extremely  fine  cambric  hand- 
kerchief and  went  on  talking  about  something  else.  But 
Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  could  not  take  the  reference 
so  lightly.  Their  eyes  were  dry  but  their  lips  stiffened 
for  a  moment  and  Miss  Flora's  throat  made  a  violent 
movement ;  neither  of  the  ladies  spoke  for  several  seconds. 
They  rarely  referred  to  their  dead  sister  and  when  they 
did,  it  was  in  a  certain  way,  in  certain  voices,  almost  in 
a  certain  language;  Robert's  emotionality  offended  them 
nearly  as  much  as  did  the  quickness  of  his  recovery ;  they 
disliked  his  wiping  his  eyes. 

Miss  Flora  was  still  under  the  influence  of  this  episode 

17 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

when  she  stole  away  in  the  lucent  evening  and  went  down 
to  the  river. 

Even  here  the  view  was  noble;  an  ample  spread  of 
broad-looking,  uncrowded  moors  rose  on  all  sides,  and  to 
her  left  lay  the  village,  Warcop,  with  its  three  old  bridges 
and  its  broad,  irregular  green,  some  three  miles  from 
where  she  sat  under  the  may-tree. 

The  sounds  reaching  her  were  the  lowing  of  cows  as 
they  marched  steadily  back  to  their  pasture-lands 
after  milking,  and  the  voices  of  sheep  farther  away,  the 
small  cries  of  the  lambs  sounding  in  the  distance  almost 
like  the  tinkle  of  little  bells.  Opposite  her,  far  up,  two 
cows,  a  white  one  and  a  brown  one,  stood  against  the  sky- 
line. She  knew  whose  they  were  and  her  vaguely-drifting 
thoughts  turned  for  a  minute  to  Joss  Skelton's  over  the 
Ridge ;  she  wondered  how  poor  Lizzie  Skelton  was,  and  if 
the  poor  little  baby  that  had  come  too  soon  would  live  or 
die.  Then  her  mind  flew  back  to  the  queer,  dark  child 
now  asleep  in  the  blue  room  at  Roseroofs. 

The  child  knew,  to  the  surprise  of  the  sisters,  but  little 
English,  and  Miss  Flora's  French  was  fragmentary  and 
apt  to  retreat  in  confusion  at  the  approach  of  what  she 
innocently  considered  a  French  accent,  so  she  had  been 
able  to  make  but  little  headway  with  her  small  niece. 
Luckily,  Miss  Effie  had  once  lived  for  three  years  at  An- 
gouleme,  so  she  could,  at  least,  make  herself  under- 
stood. 

Blundell  seemed  to  be  amused  with  the  difficulty  of 
communication  between  his  sisters-in-law  and  his  very 
diminutive  daughter.  "It  is  a  good  thing  you  cannot 
understand  her,"  he  remarked  casually,  as  the  little  crea- 
ture stamped  and  vociferously  refused  her  food,  "she  is 
swearing  like  a  pirate,  you  know " 

Then  it  appeared  that  the  child  was  demanding  cheese 
for  her  supper. 

18 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"It  certainly  is  cheese,"  Miss  Effie  declared,  in  a  puz- 
zled voice.  "Fromage — isn't  it,  Bob?" 

It  was  the  first  time  either  of  the  sisters  had  made  use 
of  the  old  nickname,  but  Miss  Flora  at  least  did  not 
notice  it,  and  Blundell  himself  did  not  appear  to. 

"Yes,  it  is  cheese,"  he  returned;  "she  has  been  for 
nearly  a  year  on  a  farm  near  Orange,  with  her  foster 
mother  you  know,  while  I  was  in  Switzerland  at  that 
damned  place  in  the  snow— I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added 
in  a  purely  perfunctory  way,  "she  is  used  to  cheese." 

And  cheese  she  obtained  by  the  time-tested  plan  of 
roaring  till  she  got  it. 

Miss  Flora  made  sure  that  cheese  must  prove  fatal  to 
a  child  of  four  and  Esther  Oughtenshaw  tried  to  side- 
track Miss  Cuckoo's  attentions  to  the  joys  of  bread  and 
jam,  but  all  in  vain. 

"Give  her  a  slab  of  cheese,"  the  insouciant  parent  sug- 
gested, as  he  stood,  his  hands  in  his  trousers-pockets,  in 
a  pose  both  the  sisters  vividly  remembered,  looking  on  as 
all  his  life  he  had  seemed  to  look  on  at  everything,  "no 
bread,  just  a  lump  of  cheese,  they  eat  it  like  that  in 
France;"  and  the  pacified  though  tear-mottled  Cuckoo 
had  proved  the  truth  of  his  words  by  eating  as  much 
cheese  as  the  two  sisters,  with  the  usual  aids  of  bread 
and  water,  could  have  consumed  at  two  meals. 

Under  her  may-tree,  a  pink  one  in  all  the  fragrant 
glory  of  its  first  flowering,  Miss  Flora  thought  despair- 
ingly of  the  cheese,  and  sighed. 

Meantime,  in  the  long,  low,  faded  drawing-room  which, 
shabby  and  worn  as  it  was,  seemed  to  have  absorbed  some 
of  the  sun  that  had  faded  it,  so  mellow-looking  was  it,  sat 
Miss  Effie  and  Robert  Blundell,  facing  the  western  sky 
that  even  now  at  nine  o'clock  was  glowing  as  if  with  the 
memory  of  its  just  departed  beauty. 

19 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Miss  Effie  sat  in  her  own  chair,  a  so-called  easy  chair, 
covered  with  yellow-and-white  chintz  of  a  recent  pur- 
chase, which  seemed  in  its  flashing  coloring  to  cause  the 
old  curtains,  chairs  and  sofas,  to  pale  with  shame  at  their 
own  shabbiness. 

Blundell  sat  opposite  his  hostess  in  an  old,  low,  long- 
seated  basket-chair,  which  he  had  not  forgotten,  in  the 
seven  years  of  his  absence,  as  the  most  comfortable  one 
in  the  house.  His  very  long  legs  stretched  out  across  the 
floor  were  painful  to  see  in  their  horrible  thinness;  the 
knees  stood  out  like  cobble-stones  under  the  thin  blue 
serge  of  his  trousers,  and  the  way  the  cloth  fell  in  above  as 
well  as  below  the  knees  made  his  fleshlessness  cruelly  ap- 
parent. He  lay  back  at  full  length,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  dark  head  and  his  bright,  hollow  eyes  nearly 
closed.  He  was  very  carefully  studying  Miss  Effie's  face, 
a  fact  unobserved  by  her  as  she  gazed  fixedly  out  of  the 
window  to  where  the  purple  shadows  creeping  up  Aycliffe 
Head  announced  that  night  had  come,  despite  the  glories 
of  the  sky. 

"How  old  are  you,  Effie?" 

The  words  seemed  to  his  hearer  to  ring  out  like  a  pistol- 
shot.  Miss  Effie  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"What  do  you  say,  Robert?"  she  asked  icily. 

A  graceless  grin  flashed  over  the  man's  face  but  his 
apology  was  prompt  and  adroit.  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
my  dear,"  he  said,  "I  was  thinking  aloud.  I  was  only 
thinking  that  you  seem  not  a  day  older  than  you  did  at 
the  wedding." 

"Do  I  not?    Yet  it  is  seven  years." 

"It  is,  and  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  except  for  my 
memories  of  you  it  might  be  seventy.  Poor  Flora  has 
aged,  you  know,"  he  added  dreamily,  but  with  a  wary 
gleam  in  his  eyes. 

Miss  Effie  made  a  little  movement  and  frowned;  he 

20 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

knew  that  she  was  ashamed  of  the  pang  of  gratification 
his  words  gave  her. 

"You  are  good,  as  always,  to  take  us  in,"  he  went  on, 
using  his  opportunity  in  the  half  innocent,  half  reprehen- 
sible way  he  had  used  his  opportunity  all  his  life.  "I  was 
half  afraid  you  might  refuse." 

Then  Miss  Effie,  to  punish  herself  for  her  base  feeling 
of  a  moment  before,  spoke  out  and  hurt  herself.  "You 
gave  me  no  chance  to  refuse,  even  if  I  had  wanted  to, 
Robert,"  she  returned. 

Blundell  burst  out  laughing  and  his  laughter,  though 
his  speaking  voice  was  husky  and  weak,  had  kept  some- 
thing of  its  old  ringing  quality. 

"So  I  didn't !    Ah,  Effie,  you  have  indeed  not  changed !" 

Drawing  his  chair  closer  to  hers,  he  sat  up  and 
joining  his  long,  thin  hands  looked  at  her  across 
them. 

"Effie,"  he  began  very  seriously,  "I  am  remarkably 
well — for  me — to-night,  but  it  is  quite  on  the  cards  that 
I  may  be  too  ill  to  speak  to-morrow.  Let  us  have  a  little 
talk  this  evening,  just  you  and  me." 

"Very  well,  Robert." 

"You  were  all  of  you  very  good  to  me,  in  the  old  days, 
even  Marcia,  but  I  think  you  know  that  you  were  always 
my  favorite — after  May." 

"After  May,"  she  repeated  quietly.     "Was  I?    Well?" 

"So  when  that  medico  in  Switzerland  told  me  to  come 
home  and  make  my  soul,  and  I  had  to  arrange  Cuckoo's 
life  for  her,  poor  little  thing,  as  best  I  could,  I  thought 
of  you." 

She  did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  said : 

"Why  not  of  Flora? — it  was  always  Flora  who  was 
your  friend,  who  took  your  part  against  Marcia,  and 
sometimes  against  me." 

"I  know,  I  know,  but  I  want  you  to  love  and  care  for 

21 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

my  poor  little  thing;  I  want  you  to  teach  her,  Effie,  as 
you  used  to  teach  the  Bingham  girls.    Will  you?" 

Her  face  softened  and  he  watched  her  as  he  went  on. 
"I  saw  Viola  Bingham  two  or  three  years  ago  in  Seville 
— Lady  Didcot  she  is  now — and  I  thought  then  how  beau- 
tifully she  had  been  educated ;  she  talked  to  me  about  you, 
and  said  she  wished  she  could  find  a  Miss  Flues  for  her 
own  girls " 

As  he  paused,  he  could  hear  Esther  Oughtenshaw  sing- 
ing a  Wesleyan  hymn  in  the  kitchen  and  listened 
for  a  moment,  for  the  old  woman's  voice  was  still 
beautiful. 

Presently  he  heard  Miss  Effie  speak. 

"Lord  and  Lady  Gifford  say  that  Flora  was  a  wonder- 
ful governess."  At  something  in  her  voice  he  looked  up 
at  her. 

"Flora  was  always  on  your  side,"  she  went  on,  "it  was 
always  she  who  was  your  friend,  Robert,  not  I." 

"Dear  Effie,  how  appallingly  honest  you  are;  need  you 
so  insist  on  never  having  liked  me?  It  seems  hard  when  I 
always  so  greatly  liked  you " 

But  his  blandishing  voice  had  no  effect  on  her ;  her  face 
looked  as  hard  as  one  of  the  gray  stones  that  edged  the 
garden  paths. 

"I  thought  it  right  to  remind  you,  Robert.  I  feel 
Flora  would  do  her  very  best  for  Cuckoo.  Is  that  her 
real  name,  Robert?" 

In  the  growing  dusk  he  leaned  still  further  forward  in 
his  chair,  and  his  ravaged  face  filled  with  dark  hollows  and 
lines  was  almost  terrifying  to  her.  . 

"No,  she  was  christened  Nicoleta,  for  my  grandmother 
who,  you  may  remember,  was  an  Italian  and  who  brought 
me  up.  It  was  poor  May  who  called  her  Cuckoo." 

After  a  moment  he  took  her  bony  hand  in  his  own,  the 
quality  of  whose  bonincss  was  so  different  from  that  of 

22 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

hers,  and  his  voice  fell  to  a  depth  at  which  for  a  moment  it 
nearly  lost  its  huskiness. 

"Effie,"  he  pleaded,  "you  won't  refuse  to  take  care  of 
Cuckoo?  Remember  she  is  not  only  mine;  she  is  half 
May's." 

"I  know,  Robert." 

"And  on  the  other  hand,"  he  went  on  urgently,  "just 
because  she  is  mine,  she  will  need  the  wisest  care."  After 
a  pause  he  added,  "What  was  it  you  called  me  that  time  ?" 

Whatever  her  words  had  been,  she  would  not  let  him 
repeat  them. 

"Don't,  Bob,"  she  cried,  "don't  talk  about  things  that 
are  dead  and  gone  years  ago !  Tell  me  what  you  want  me 
to  do,  what  you  want  me  to  do  now,  and  I'll  try  to  do  it — 
for  May's  sake." 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  at  their  hard  and 
dry  touch  she  shivered;  it  was  like  the  touch  of  a  dead 
leaf. 

"I  want  you,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  lying  back 
again  in  his  chair  and  speaking  very  gravely,  "to  try  to 
counteract  the  Me  in  her;  to  harden  and  toughen  her 
fiber  if  you  can ;  to  make  her  like  yourself." 

Miss  Effie  nodded  slowly.  She  said:  "I  quite  under- 
stand. Poor  May  was — not  very  strong,  either,  and 

I  will  try.  But — Robert,"  she  added  a  moment  later, 
in  a  softer  tone,  "Flora  must  not  know  of  this  talk.  She 
was  always  your  friend,  you  know,  and  she  will  want  a 
share  in  bringing  up  the  little  Nicoleta.  Do  you  see 
what  I  mean?" 

Of  course  he  saw.  Robert  Blundell  had  always  seen 
at  once  what  people  meant,  and  with  all  his  faults  he  had, 
to  do  him  justice,  often  seen  the  nobility  of  things  he  had 
never  even  attempted  to  emulate.  He  was  not  being 
single-hearted,  even  now  at  the  end  of  his  life,  but  he 
meant  what  he  said. 

23 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"You  mean  that  dear  Flora  must  not  know  that  I 
want  my  child  to  have  your  strength  and  your  resolu- 
tion rather  than  her — her  sweet  ways?  Of  course  she 
must  not.  And  I  give  you  my  word,"  he  added,  rising, 
"that  I  will  never  mention  this  talk  to  her.  Hush,  here 
she  comes." 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  the  moon  had  risen  and  Miss 
Effie  had  been  called  to  the  kitchen  to  see  Joss  Skelton, 
who  had  come  over  the  hill  and  up  to  Roseroofs  for  some 
advice  about  his  sick  wife,  Blundell  drew  Miss  Flora  into 
the  garden. 

"I  want  to  smell  the  sweet  stocks,"  he  said,  plucking 
at  her  sleeve  in  the  boyish  way  she  remembered. 

"But  you  will  catch  cold,"  she  protested,  as  she  lit 
the  candles  on  the  mantelpiece,  "sit  down,  and  I  will  get 
you  a  beaten-up  egg." 

"If  you  knew  how  my  soul  sickens  at  the  mere  sound 
of  the  words  'beaten-up  egg'  you  would  not  say  that — 
come  along  into  the  garden,  there's  a  dear  Flora." 

Miss  Flora  left  off  swaying  from  her  heels  to  her  toes 
and  back:  "Will  you  put  on  a  hat?" 

"I  will." 

They  went  out  through  the  window  and  walked  down 
to  the  front  of  the  house  on  the  dew-wet,  mossy,  flagged 
path.  The  night-scented  stocks  grew  in  a  clump  by  the 
wall  and  there  the  two  stood,  looking  up  the  dale  to  the 
left.  Suddenly  Blundell  said,  "Flora,  I  want  you  to  do 
me  a  favor." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  sweet  eyes  bright  in  her  faded 
face.  "I  will  if  I  can,  Robert." 

"Say  Bob." 

"Bob,  then;  what  is  it?" 

"Well,  it  is  about  my  poor  little  mouse,  Cuckoo.  I 
want  you  to  take  care  of  her  and  teach  her." 

Miss  Flora  fluttered  her  head.    "But  I  have  not  taught 

24 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  child  for  nearly  thirty  years,  and  I  fear  I  was  never  Very 
good  at  instruction.  Besides,  I  have  forgotten  how." 

"Nonsense." 

"But  I  have.  No,  no,  Effie  is  the  clever  one,  Robert 
— Bob.  She  will  do  it;  she  is  strong  and  wise,  whereas 
I,"  she  made  a  sweet  little  gesture,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  "I  was  never  clever,  you  know,  and  now — I  am  old 
as  well." 

Blundell  was  touched.  "You  are  a  sweet,  good,  gentle 
woman,"  he  said,  with  conviction,  "and  I  love  your  ways. 
Have  it  as  you  like,  my  dear.  Let  Effie  teach  her  to  be 
strong  as  you  say,  but — you  know  that  after  poor  May, 
you  were  always  my  favorite,  Flora.  Teach  her  to  be 
sweet  and  gentle  like  you." 

Miss  Flora  blushed  vividly.  "Oh,  Bob,  do  you  really 
think— that?" 

"I  know  it,  and  I  want  my  poor  little  Cuckoo  to  be 
like  you.  Effie  is  firm,  and  strong,  and  good,  but  I  want 
Cuckoo  to  learn  to  sit  and  sew,  to  embroider — and  I 
want  her  to  be  gentle  and — and  sweet,  Flora." 

In  this  he  was  perfectly  sincere,  just  as  he  had  been 
sincere  with  Miss  Effie.  He  had  always  had  this  odd, 
valueless  gift  of  temporary  sincerity. 

"Try  to  make  her  gentle,  will  you,  Flora?"  he  went 
on,  "she  is  a  hard  little  nut" — and  Miss  Flora  promised. 

Then  she  added,  "I  think  poor  Effie  might  be  hurt 
if  she  knew  how  you  felt,  Bob;  she  is  so  good  and  fine 
under  her  slight — how  shall  I  say? — roughness " 

Blundell  took  her  delicate  hand  and  laying  it  on  his 
arm  led  her  back  to  the  window,  through  which  a  yellow 
light  now  poured. 

"I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,  Flora,"  he  said  se- 
riously, "that  I  will  never  tell  Effie  a  word  of  our  talk. 
I  must  go  to  bed  now,  I  am  more  tired  than  you  can 
know." 

25 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Raising  her  two  hands  in  his,  he  bowed  his  dark  head 
over  them  in  the  graceful  way  that  had  so  struck  her 
when  he  had  come  to  Roseroofs  seven  years  before  as 
poor  May's  promised  husband,  and  kissed  them. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  "and  God  bless  you." 


CHAPTER  III 

BLUNDELL  grew  better  in  the  clear  upland  air,  and 
for  some  time  it  looked  as  if  his  were  to  be  one 
of  the  marvellous  cures  the  proud  memory  of 
which  is  cherished  by  the  natives  of  every  particularly 
healthful  place. 

Old  Mrs.  Bridlegoose  of  Brown  End — her  mother  was 
a  Skelton — recalled  for  Esther  Oughtenshaw's  benefit  the 
story  of  Sam  Christie's  Gentleman,  who  forty  years  be- 
fore came  to  the  dale  in  a  dying  condition  and  lived  to 
return  every  year  for  just  twenty- two  years,  when  he 
was  killed  in  a  carriage-accident. 

"His  loongs  were  a'most  goan,  t'London  Doctor  said, 
but  old  Dr.  Dawes  set  him  oop — fold  doctor  an*  t'dale 
air." 

This  beautiful  and  cheering  tale  Esther  Oughtenshaw 
brought  to  Blundell,  under  whose  spell  she  was  quite 
helpless,  and  though  he  laughed  at  it  and  assured  her 
that  he  personally  had  not  enough  lung  left  to  make  a 
pen-wiper,  yet  he  had  liked  it. 

The  sisters  took  great  care  of  their  self-invited  guest. 
The  big  basket-chair  filled  with  cushions  whose  green 
and  mauve  canvas  covers  had  been  embroidered  by  their 
mother  in  her  young  days,  was  carried  every  morning 
into  the  garden  and  in  it  Robert  Blundell  practically 
lived.  He  and  it  followed  the  progress  of  the  sun,  moving 
with  the  shade  from  one  to  another  of  the  trees ;  and  Es- 
ther Oughtenshaw  had  added  to  her  manifold  duties  the 
new  one  of  watching  the  sun,  to  which  end  her  pleasant 
old  face  might  have  been  seen  every  half-hour  or  so  peer- 

27 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ing  out  of  one  window  or  another,  inspecting  what  she 
plainly  considered  the  newly-adopted  vagaries  of  a  hith- 
erto sober  luminary. 

"Surely,  'tisn't  more  than  ten  minutes,"  she  would  mut- 
ter as  she  sallied  forth,  drying  her  hands  on  her  blue- 
and-white  apron,  "since  I  shifted  him,  and  there  sits  the 
poor  gentleman  in  a  champion  blaze."  And  when  Esther 
had  conveyed  the  chair  and  the  pillows  from  the  dwind- 
ling shade  of  his  last  shelter  to  a  new  and  more  full- 
bodied  oasis,  one  or  the  other  of  the  sisters  would  settle 
the  invalid  in  his  chair  and  coax  the  old  pillows  into  a 
nest  of  comfort  over  which  he  never  ceased  to  exclaim. 
Not  once  did  he  forget  to  thank  Esther  Oughtenshaw 
for  moving  what  he  always  called,  although  it  was  of 
basket-work,  "that  heavy  chair" ;  and  Esther,  though  she 
could  have  given  no  reason  for  it,  liked  to  hear  him  call 
the  chair  heavy.  Poor  Blundell,  in  spite  of  his  mani- 
fold sins  and  wickednesses,  had  always  been  a  popular 
man  and  the  reason  was  probably  that  he  was  what  the 
Wiskedale  people  call,  with  no  reference  whatever  to 
money,  generous. 

He  had  always  asked  and  assumed  much,  but  his  thanks 
were  sincere  and  warm ;  he  was  a  man  of  ample 
gratitudes. 

The  garden  of  Roseroofs  was  a  little  unkempt,  for  old 
Benjie  Brigworthy,  the  gardener,  was  a  communal 
possession  and  "did"  for  Dr.  Loxley,  the  Vicar  of  Widdy- 
bank ;  for  Mr.  Briggs,  the  Lord  of  the  Manor's  agent :  for 
old  Miss  Dawes,  the  Doctor's  sister;  and  came  to  Rose- 
roofs  only  twice  a  week;  but  Miss  Flora  and  Miss  Effie 
were  both  fond  of  flowers  and  worked  in  the  garden  them- 
selves, so  that  it  was  always,  except  in  the  very  depth  of 
winter,  full  of  flowers  of  some  kind.  Moreover,  Miss 
Effie  and  Miss  Flora  had  each  a  special  garden,  the  plots 
they  had  been  given  and  taught  to  cultivate  as  children, 

28 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

and  these  plots  were  the  objects  of  their  specialized  at- 
tention and  skill. 

It  had  better  be  explained  that  Roseroofs  did  not  look 
out  at  the  dale  view  with  its  front  windows,  but  with  those 
at  the  back,  from  the  dining-room  windows  and  the  end 
drawing-room  window;  the  two  other  drawing-room  win- 
dows faced  directly  to  the  west.  To  the  left  of  the  gar- 
den gate  stood  a  small  copper  beech,  and  beyond,  after 
crossing  a  little  grass  plot  to  the  left,  one  came  to  the 
kitchen  garden,  which  was  overlooked  by  the  kitchen  and 
scullery  windows;  and  just  to  the  right  of  the  gate,  on 
entering,  was  Miss  Effie's  garden.  Here  grew  the  sweet 
stocks  and,  in  the  spring,  tulips.  Amongst  Miss  Effie's 
treasures,  as  the  seasons  advanced,  were  red  roses,  holly- 
hocks, sunflowers  and  chrysanthemums. 

By  a  tacit  understanding,  dating  from  the  days  when 
Miss  Effie's  hair  was  cropped  and  pushed  off  her  bony 
brow  by  a  round  comb  and  Miss  Flora's  hung  to  the  waist 
in  two  attenuated  pigtails,  Miss  Flora  had  in  her  garden 
no  tulips,  and  no  red  roses,  and  no  chrysanthemums.  In 
return  for  this  abstention  Miss  Effie  eschewed  wild  hya- 
cinths, daffodils,  pink  roses  and  the  double  white  violets 
that  in  the  Spring  were  Miss  Flora's  special  joy. 

Sometimes,  with  a  certain  air,  not  perhaps  of  solem- 
nity, but  of  a  high  holiday,  Miss  Flora  presented  Miss 
Effie  with  a  nosegay  of  The  Violets,  or  of  the  pink  roses 
that  grew  so  lavishly  on  her  two  old  trees.  More  rarely 
Miss  Effie  without  a  word  would  put  at  Miss  Flora's 
place  at  breakfast  a  few  tulips  standing  stiffly  in  a  favor- 
ite old  glass  vase  of  their  mother's,  or,  later  in  the  year, 
a  tuft  of  chrysanthemums.  To  the  two  ladies  their  gar- 
den was  a  place  of  real  beauty  and  romance. 

Sheltered  as  it  was  from  the  east  and  north  winds,  roses 
of  various  sorts  flourished  exceedingly,  the  great  tree  of 
yellow  roses  known  as  Father's  rose-tree  being  one  of  the 

29 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

finest  in  the  country-side,  and  on  the  front  wall  of  the 
house  where  the  study  windows  directly  faced  the  gate, 
there  stood  a  row  of  old  moss-roses  that  bloomed  through- 
out the  summer  and  then  continued  their  career,  embalmed 
by  Miss  Flora  in  salt  and  spices  in  old  Chinese  jars  with 
gilded  and  perforated  tops,  in  the  drawing-room. 

Poor  Blundell  loved  flowers — he  had  always  been  a 
man  of  pleasant  tastes — and  that  last  summer  he  enjoyed 
them  to  his  heart's  full  content.  On  the  little  mahogany 
sewing-table  that  followed  him  about  from  shady  place 
to  shady  pl^ce  there  always  stood  beside  his  books,  his 
newspapers,  his  cigarette  and  match-boxes  and  his  bottle 
of  medicine,  either  a  vase  or  a  bowl  of  flowers. 

Miss  Flora,  when  it  was  her  turn  to  beautify  the  table, 
usually  chose  a  bowl;  she  loved  best  what  she  called  bowl 
flowers.  Violets  are  bowl  flowers,  and  pansies;  so  are 
the  delicate  wild  hyacinths  called  blue-bells  to  the  de- 
spair, one  is  told,  of  Scottish  folk ;  and  marsh  marigolds, 
and  moon  daisies.  Miss  Effie's  own  garden,  of  course, 
Miss  Flora  never  touched,  but  there  were  pansies  in  both, 
as  well  as  roses  and  many  other  flowers,  and  Miss  Effie, 
whose  affections  were  fixed  on  a  tall  old  vase  of  beautiful 
Irish  glass,  would  fill  it  with  geraniums  and  stocks  or  lilac 
or  delphiniums,  and  then  with  her  solid,  springless  gait, 
she  would  carry  her  offering  to  wherever  Blundell  might 
be  installed  and  set  it  down  on  the  table  with  a  little  bang. 

"There,"  she  would  say,  "these  are  not  very  fine  ones, 
but  they  are  the  best  we  have  got,"  which  was  thoroughly 
insincere,  for  Miss  Effie  was  convinced  that  the  Rose- 
roofs  flowers  could  not  be  beaten  anywhere. 

So  the  warm,  still  days  passed  by,  and  the  fine  air  and 
the  vital  palpitant  silences  of  the  moorland  did  indeed  rest 
and  heal  the  invalid's  nerves,  although  his  lungs  were  too 
far  gone  to  be  helped.  It  pleased  him  to  watch  the  details 
of  the  simple  lives  around  him ;  he  learned  how  interested 

30 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

one  could  be  in  the  weather  in  places  where  the  weather 
is  so  important;  no  one  ever  came  to  the  house,  man  or 
woman,  without  a  few  words  on  the  all-engrossing  sub- 
ject. 

"Marning,  sir,  a  bit  windy,  but  a  champion  marning," 
or,  "It's  a  soony  day — will  be  doing  you  good,  sir,"  or, 
"Ah,  didn't  mooch  like  the  sunset  last  night,  sir,  a  bit 
too  cloudy  in  t'  west,  but  mebbe  it'll  fine  up  later,"  and 
Blundell  found  himself  enjoying  these  little  talks  and 
looking  out  for  them.  He  had,  moreover,  seen  too  much 
of  the  world  not  to  value  the  independence, of  the  dales- 
men, and  he  liked  the  burr  in  their  mournful,  musical 
voices.  Benjie  Brigworthy,  a  cross-grained,  pugnacious, 
tough  old  man  of  seventy,  was  his  special  joy,  and  Benjie 
soon  got  used  to  what  he  called  poor  Miss  May's  hus- 
band's foony  wa-ays  and  the  two  often  had  long  talks 
together. 

Mr.  Brigworthy  was  a  Tory  of  very  decided  views; 
Robert  Blundell  had  no  political  convictions  but  his  lines 
had  generally  fallen  in  liberal  places;  and  he  found  him- 
self, to  his  own  delight,  becoming  very  angry  with  the 
old  gardener's  antediluvian  viewpoints.  The  old  fellow 
was  pig-headed  and  advanced  but  little  on  his  grand- 
father's beliefs,  but  he  was  a  regular  reader  of  a  Tory 
paper,  and  some  of  his  language,  when  goaded  by  the  un- 
principled Blundell,  was  in  its  unbridled  wrath  a  source 
of  exquisite  delight  to  the  latter,  who,  to  lead  him  on, 
shamelessly  professed  principles  that  would  have  appeared 
liberal  even  to  Marat  in  his  heyday.  But  in  spite  of  these 
diversions,  Blundell  was  a  good  deal  alone,  rather  to  his 
own  surprise,  for  he  fully  realized  himself  to  be  the  pleas- 
ant fellow  he  was,  and  knew  that  against  his  peculiar 
charm  even  extreme  old  age  was  no  safeguard  to  women. 

This  charm  of  his,  a  thing  not  wholly  reprehensible  and 
possessed  of  certain  delightfully  innocent  qualities  as 

31 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

well  as  of  others,  had  been  compared  by  somebody  years 
ago — for  Robert  Blundell  was  over  forty — to  a  bird  that 
he  kept  in  a  cage  and  gave  wing  to  at  will.  If  he  wished 
to  be  liked — and  he  had  almost  always  wished  to  be  liked 
by  almost  everybody — he  had  only  to  open  the  door  of 
the  cage  and  the  bird  would  fly  out  to  whistle  and  beguile 
away  prejudices  and  disapprovals,  and  to  inculcate  in 
their  stead  likings  of  various  kinds  and  degrees,  of  some 
of  which  their  object  only  too  soon  wearied.  And  now,  in 
his  solitude,  he  opened  his  cage  and  let  forth  his  bird,  but 
its  lure  failed  with  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora.  Kind  they 
were  to  him,  considerate,  the  best  of  hostesses;  but  day 
after  day  Miss  Flora  passed  him,  light-footed,  with  her 
absurd  air  of  antique  youth,  telling  him  that  she  was  go- 
ing for  a  walk,  and  he  would  not  see  her  for  hours,  when 
she  would  come  bounding  across  the  green  to  the  gate 
without  the  least  sign  of  fatigue. 

While  her  sister  was  away,  Miss  EfBe  usually  brought 
her  sewing — Miss  Effie  sewed  for  the  poor,  in  the  relent- 
less ways  of  other  days,  utilitarian  garments  that  Robert 
would  shudder  at — and  for  a  short  half-hour  would  sit 
by  him,  bolt  upright  in  a  wooden-seated  chair.  And  as 
she  sewed,  her  needle  being,  he  was  sure,  much  noisier  than 
other  needles,  she  would  discuss  with  him  her  plans  for 
the  education  of  the  child. 

Cuckoo,  with  her  dark,  forbidding  aspect,  would  be 
either  playing  at  some  solitary  little  game  in  the  sunniest 
spot  she  could  find,  or  in  the  kitchen  with  Esther  Oughten- 
shaw,  whose  society  she,  without  shame,  preferred  to  that 
of  her  aunts. 

Neither  Miss  Effie,  nor  Miss  Flora,  nor  Blundell  him- 
self, had  ever  referred  to  the  subject  of  their  two  conver- 
sations on  the  evening  of  his  arrival.  His  mind  was  quiet 
on  the  subject;  he  knew  the  two  women  and  trusted  them 
as  they  deserved,  and  they  trusted  him  as  he  would  not 

32 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

have  deserved  but  for  the  fact  that  in  this  particular 
case  it  was  to  his  own  interest  to  keep  silent. 

Cuckoo  was  to  begin  reading  as  soon  as  she  had  learned 
English.  Miss  Flora  was  to  teach  her  writing,  because 
Miss  Effie  had  a  great  admiration  for  her  sister's  delicate, 
slanting,  so-called  Italian  hand.  The  use  of  the  globes 
and  history  were  also  to  lie  in  Miss  Effie's  province.  Miss 
Flora  would  teach  her  to  play  the  piano. 

Blundell's  gravity  was  a  thing  to  be  admired  when  Miss 
Flora's  musical  accomplishments  were  under  discussion. 
He  had  heard  Miss  Flora  play. 

Embroidery  the  child  was  to  learn  by  her  father's  spe- 
cial request. 

"I'd  like  her  to  do  flowers  as  Flora  does,"  he  said  once, 
"not  those  dreadful  scratchy  things  you  make,  Effie." 
And  Miss  Effie  agreed,  but  further  than  such  skirtings  of 
the  subject,  they  never  approached  to  their  pact  and 
Blundell  knew  that  the  matter  was  settled  once  and  for 
all. 

His  talks  with  Miss  Flora  were  of  the  same  kind,  and 
it  had  come  naturally  to  pass  that  Miss  Flora  should 
have  more  to  do  with  the  young  Nicoleta  than  her  sister, 
for  the  young  Nicoleta,  nearly  as  grim  and  silent  as  her 
aunt  Effie,  in  a  miniature  way,  had  taken  a  violent  dislike 
to  that  lady  and  showed  what  was  to  Miss  Flora  an  al- 
most sinfully  gratifying  preference  for  la  jolie  tante. 
They  never  dared  ask  what  the  child  privately  called  Miss 
Effie  and  for  the  most  part  she  referred  to  her  as 
"she" — "elle,"  as  she  said  in  her  strange,  deep,  husky 
voice. 

One  afternoon  both  sisters,  a  very  unusual  thing,  were 
sitting  under  the  great  ash  that  stood  in  the  southeast 
corner  of  the  garden,  in  coming  to  which  from  the  gate 
one  passed  Miss  Flora's  garden. 

The  winter  had  been  a  severe  one,  and  the  spring  cor- 

33 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

respondingly  slow  in  coming,  so  that  even  yet  the  may- 
tree  by  the  wall  was  in  full  flower.  From  the  Green  Bench, 
Miss  Flora  had  just  told  Blundell,  it  looked  like  an  im- 
mense snowball. 

Blundell  lay  stretched  out  in  his  chair,  a  long  figure 
in  a  suit — secretly  considered  by  both  sisters  to  be  not 
quite  the  thing — of  shantung  silk,  and  on  two  of  the 
purgatorial  old  wheel-backed  chairs  from  the  dining-room, 
Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  sat  sewing.  Near  them  stood 
a  fourth  chair,  a  Chippendale  with  a  cushion  in  it,  from 
that  deserted  haunt,  the  study. 

Both  ladies  showed  in  their  apparel  signs  of  an  im- 
pending guest,  for  Miss  Flora,  whose  mauve-and-white- 
flowered  frock  was  obviously  just  from  the  tub  and  the 
iron,  had  on  all  her  rings,  and  Miss  Effie  wore  what  Blun- 
dell, in  his  sympathetic  reprobate  bones,  felt,  though  he 
had  never  seen  it  before,  to  be  her  Best.  It  was  a  gray 
poplin  painfully  ill-adapted  to  Miss  Effie's  sallow  and 
weather-burned  skin.  Moreover,  Blundell's  skilled  eyes 
told  him  that  the  cut  of  the  thing  was  of  all  cuts  the  most 
unpropitious  to  Miss  Effie's  square  and  heavily-built  body. 
There  was  no  drapery  to  hide  the  angles,  nothing  to  soften 
the  flatness  of  the  hips  or  the  prominence  of  the  shoulder- 
blades.  A  fichu  would  do  it,  Blundell  thought  pityingly, 
some  nice,  soft  stuff  over  the  shoulders,  and  crossed  in 
front — nevertheless,  Miss  Effie  was  en  grande  tenue,  for 
her  little  flat  collar,  so  useless  as  an  aid  to  beauty,  was 
of  valuable  old  lace  and  it  was  fastened  by  a  brooch,  a 
large  and  beautiful  topaz  set  in  chased  gold. 

"Effie,"  Miss  Flora  said  suddenly,  looking  up  from  the 
great  strip  of  delicate  lawn  on  which  she  was  embroider- 
ing fuchsias  in  their  natural  colors,  "you  really  will  have 
to  speak  to  her,  she  is  singing  again " 

Round  the  corner  of  the  kitchen  came  Esther  Oughten- 
shaw's  voice  raised  in  praise  of  her  Maker. 

34 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Why  stop  her,  Flora?"  Blundell  asked  lazily;  "it  is 
really  beautiful " 

"Flora  knows  that,  Robert — we  know  about  Esther's 
voice.  She  sings  in  the  choir  at  Warcop  and  everyone 
admires  it.  It  is  Marcia  she  is  thinking  of." 

Miss  Effie  finished  the  hideous  little  garment  she  was 
working  on  and,  taking  off  her  thimble,  folded  her  work. 
"Flora  is  afraid  of  shocking  Marcia  with  our  country 
ways,"  she  said. 

Miss  Flora  looked  up  hastily,  her  eyes  flashing. 
Blundell  saw  that  for  some  reason  Miss  Effie's  remark 
had  hurt  her,  but  she  said  nothing  and  a  few  moments  later 
she  rose,  folded  her  really  beautiful  embroidery,  and  lay- 
ing it  in  the  deep-green  baize  drawer  of  the  sewing-table, 
went  into  the  house. 

"Tell  Esther  to  be  careful  with  the  tea-cakes,"  Miss 
Effie  called  after  her. 

"It  strikes  me  you  are  afraid  of  the  tea-cakes  shocking 
Marcia,"  the  invalid  said  idly,  watching  her  with  half- 
closed  eyes. 

"Marcia  is  very  particular  and  she  has  every  right  to 
be;  she  is  used  to  the  best  of  everything,  living  in  Lon- 
don," returned  Miss  Effie  grimly. 

"I  know  she  is,  but  what  a  bad  argument !  To  my  mind 
it  is  people  who  have  had  the  worst  of  everything  who 
have  the  right  to  be  particular " 

Miss  Effie  did  not  answer,  and  this,  her  unconscious 
North-country  way  of  meeting  an  incontrovertible  or 
even  a  merely  troublesome  argument,  made  him  ill  at  ease. 

"Cuckoo,"  he  called  out  to  end  the  situation,  "Cuckoo, 
where  are  you?" 

But  it  was  Esther  Oughtenshaw  who,  her  head  thrust 
out  of  the  dining-room  window,  gave  Blundell  the  infor- 
mation that  the  child  had  been  digging  in  the  kitchen- 
garden  and  that  Miss  Flora  was  at  that  moment  en- 

35 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

gaged  in  removing  from  her  the  signs  of  her  labors.  Miss 
Effie  rose. 

"I  must  go  and  watch  for  the  carriage  from  the  blue- 
room  window,"  she  said.  "I  can  see  it  when  it  gets  to  the 
turning  by  the  big  may-tree  and  that  is  just  time  to  mash 
the  tea " 

Left  alone,  Blundell  whistled  softly  to  himself;  the 
prospect  of  Lady  Fabricius'  visit  annoyed  and  bored 
him,  for  he  knew  that  it  meant  the  end  of  his  lazy  and 
happy  time.  She  could  not  force  him  to  walk,  or  even 
to  sit  upright,  for  that  would  be  practically  murdering 
him,  but  he  would  have  to  speak  loud,  instead  of  mur- 
muring as  he  liked  to  do — for  she  was  a  little  deaf  and 
no  one  was  allowed  to  know  it — and  she  would  expect 
him  to  be  grateful  to  her  for  coming  all  this  way  to  see 
him. 

He  was  not  uncommon  in  feeling  gratitude  an  impos- 
sible achievement  when  it  was  demanded  of  him,  fsnd  in 
ordinary  circumstances  he  would  have  run  away  at  the 
first  news  of  her  impending  visit,  but  he  was  dying,  and 
he  must  put  his  house  in  order  so  far  as  he  could  and 
Lady  Fabricius  would  help  him.  At  this  point  in  his  very 
unusual  meditations,  he  smiled  and  corrected  the  phrase. 

"No,  it  is  putting  the  poor  Flora's  and  the  poor  Effie's 
house  in  order!  It  is  they  who  will  have  all  the  trouble. 
The  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  won't  hurt  old  Marcia — 
she  will  never  miss  it — and  they,  Heaven  help  'em,  will 
have  Cuckoo."  For  a  moment  he  reflected  on  this  point, 
half  sorry,  half  amused,  and  then,  still  smiling,  and  very 
slowly,  he  rose. 

Lady  Fabricius'  reception  was  as  majestic  as  his  own 
progress  as,  leaning  on  her  maid's  arm,  she  came  across 
the  little  common  to  the  gate. 

At  the  gate  stood  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  and  Blun- 
,  dell,  whose  irrepressible  theater-sense  had  induced  him  to 

36 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

make  an  effort.  Indeed,  he  was  amply  rewarded  for  his 
pains,  for  not  only  did  he,  with  his  incorrigible  inward  eye, 
clearly  see  the  impression  his  gaunt  and  moribund  person 
must  make,  side  by  side  with  the  gracile  Miss  Flora  and 
the  grim  and  solid  Miss  Effie,  but  Lady  Fabricius  at  once 
expressed  her  satisfaction  with  his  tribute  to  the  effect 
of  her  arrival,  by  telling  him  that  she  was  delighted  to  see 
him  looking  so  well ! 

This  remark  was  so  characteristic  of  the  speaker  that 
he  had  the  unusual  joy  of  catching  a  hasty,  shame-faced 
glance  between  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora,  a  glance  whose 
grandmother,  so  to  speak,  he  remembered  on  the 
occasion  of  his  marriage  festivities,  seven  years 
before. 

"I  brought  Charlotte,  you  see,"  Lady  Fabricius  ex- 
plained, a  trifle  unnecessarily,  as  she  was  at  that  moment 
being  supported  to  the  little  colony  of  chairs  under  the 
ash-tree  by  Charlotte  herself,  "I  thought  my  French  wo- 
man might  frighten  Esther." 

"Nothing  would  frighten  Esther,"  Blundell  heard  him- 
self saying;  "not  even  the  Almighty." 

"Robert!" 

It  was  Marcia  who  protested,  though  he  knew  with  in- 
stant regret  that  his  profanity  must  have  hurt  Miss  Effie 
and  Miss  Flora,  whereas  Lady  Fabricius'  exclamation 
was  a  ready-made  one  and  meant  nothing.  Esther,  when 
she  brought  tea  the  next  moment,  appeared  to  verify  his 
unfortunately-expressed  belief,  for  setting  down  the  tray 
she  turned  to  Lady  Fabricius,  and  shaking  hands  with 
her,  said  unabashed  and  heartily:  "Aye,  a'm  glad  to  see 
yer,  Miss  Marcia — my  lady — and  yer  looking  fine  for  yer 
yeers,  and  fa,t  an'  all " 

Her  ladyship,  who  was  indeed  very  fat  with  the  kind 
of  fat  which  seems  to  engulf  the  personality,  had  turned 
her  back  on  the  old  servant  who  was  yet  younger  than 

37 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

she.    References  to  her  bulk  were  as  unwelcome  to  her  as 
they  are  to  most  people. 

This  was  an  exquisite  moment  for  Blundell,  and  put 
out  of  his  mind  for  a  while  the  worrying  thought  of 
Cuckoo.  Cuckoo,  he  knew,  was  a  dreadful  child,  and 
he  realized  how  much  more  dreadful  her  dreadfulness 
would  appear  to  Lady  Fabricius  than  it  did  to  her  sisters. 
Flora's  odd,  old  youthfulness  would,  he  was  sure,  event- 
ually arrive  at  winning  the  child's  admiration,  for  Cuckoo 
admired  or  disliked,  as  yet;  she  had  not  begun  to  show  a 
disposition  to  love.  Although  the  dark  imp  obviously 
did  not  admire  her  Aunt  Effie,  she  had  already  manifested 
certain  minute  signs  of  a  wholesome  awe  of  that  lady,  as 
well  as  of  a  slight  softening  of  demeanor  towards  Miss 
Flora,  la  jolie  tante. 

About  Lady  Fabricius,  who  in  a  way  was  the  most 
important  of  the  three,  Blundell  had  grave  fears.  Many 
years  ago,  before  he  had  met  her,  Marcia  Plues  had  been 
a  beauty,  but  now  her  young  and  middle-aged  beauties 
had  gone  for  ever;  gone  to  be  replaced  by  that  ugliest 
and  most  pitiful  of  travesties,  a  travesty  of  the  beauty 
of  youth. 

Cuckoo  was  only  four,  yet  her  father  felt,  as  he  lay 
back  in  his  chair  watching  Lady  Fabricius  satisfying  her 
hunger  and  thirst  with  a  voracity  that  was  rather  un- 
pleasant, that  those  sloe-black  eyes  of  his  daughter's 
could  detect  as  quickly  as  his  own  had  detected  them,  the 
meretricious  attempts  at  red-brown  hair,  the  patina  of 
white  and  pink  that  vainly  tried  to  hide  the  sagging  and 
the  wrinkles  of  her  eldest  aunt's  sixty-year-old  skin.  "You 
cannot  put  new  wine  into  old  bottles,"  he  mused,  hiding 
his  unmanageable  mouth  with  one  hand,  "neither  can  you 
put  old  faces  into  new  skins."  But  he  could  hold  his 
tongue  and  Cuckoo  very  probably  could  not,  or  would 
not.  Luckily  she  knew  very  little  English. 

38 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

While  the  maiden  sisters  were  asking,  with  the  politest 
hunger  for  detail,  about  Sir  Adolph  Fabricius,  Blundell 
slowly  rose,  and  as  slowly  went  into  the  house  by  the 
drawing-room  window.  He  found  Cuckoo  sitting  in  the 
middle  of  the  kitchen  table  on  a  small  three-legged  stool. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Cuckoo?"  he  asked  in  French. 

"I  am  going  to  see  my  beautiful  auntie,"  she  returned 
slowly,  but  with  a  marked  distinctness. 

Blundell  was  puzzled  and  sat  down,  wondering  what 
he  had  better  do.  He  had  seen  very  little  of  his  daughter, 
for  during  the  first  year  of  her  life  she  had  been  kept 
away  from  his  wife,  who  was  dying.  He  had  adored  his 
wife  in  his  unsatisfactory  way,  and  had  hardly  left  her 
from  the  beginning  of  her  illness,  near  the  bridge  where, 
according  to  the  old  song,  "On  danse,  on  danse." 

The  day  after  the  funeral  he  and  Anne  Rose  Ponchaus, 
the  child's  nounou  and  subsequent  bonne,  had  started  on 
an  endless  series  of  little  journeys,  from  town  to  town, 
from  the  sea  to  the  mountains,  vainly  seeking  that  health 
which  he  was  destined  never  to  find. 

The  child,  a  delicate,  querulous  little  thing,  far  from 
being  a  comfort  to  him,  had  been  in  his  nerve-racked  con- 
dition a  perfect  nuisance,  and  Anne  Rose,  realizing  this, 
had  kept  her  out  of  her  father's  sight  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. 

Twice  during  their  travels,  Blundell  had  broken  down 
and  been  ill  for  months,  during  which  time  he  rarely 
so  much  as  set  eyes  on  Cuckoo ;  and  when,  finally,  a  nice 
old  doctor,  met  in  a  train,  told  him  that  his  only  chance 
was  to  live  for  a  year  in  Switzerland,  high  up  among  the 
snows,  Anne  Rose  Ponchaux  had  taken  the  eighteen- 
months-old  baby  to  her  father's  farm  near  Orange,  whence 
she  had  come  two  years  ago,  when  she  had  done  that  most 
unusual  thing  among  French  peasants,  married  a  for- 
eigner, i.e.,  a  man  from  another  part  of  France.  Thus 

39 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Blundell  had  seen  very  little  of  his  motherless  child,  and 
until  two  or  three  weeks  before  their  arrival  at  Roseroofs, 
he  had  not  seen  her  at  all  since  the  day  he  went  to  Switzer- 
land. 

So  there  in  the  shady  old  kitchen,  with  its  stone  floor 
covered  with  black  and  red  rugs  made  with  short  ends  of 
cloth;  its  long  stove  with  its  polished  steel  and  brass; 
its  fine  old  oak  table;  its  wheel-backed  chairs  and  its 
slippery  black  sofa,  sat  that  afternoon  Robert  Blundell 
and  his  practically  unknown  daughter,  studying  each  oth- 
er's faces  with  a  gravity  that,  but  for  the  man's  obviously 
desperate  ill-health,  would  have  been  ludicrous. 

In  her  stiffly-starched  white  frock — a  frock  made  in 
far-off  Orange  in  clumsy  imitation  of  the  Sunday  frocks 
of  the  children  of  the  local  bourgeoisie — the  child  sat  on 
her  stool,  her  brown  hands,  thin  and  flexile  like  a  monkey's, 
folded  on  her  knees.  She  wore  scarlet  morocco  strap-over 
shoes,  the  gift  of  her  father,  and  a  string  of  coral  beads 
hung  round  her  dark  neck.  Her  thick  black  hair  had 
been  crudely  cropped  by  Anne  Rose,  and  hung  in  an  un- 
even line  across  her  brow,  on  which  showed  a  fine, 
murderous  frown,  fit  for  a  Borgia.  Her  eyes  really  were 
like  sloes,  for  in  their  unfathomable  darkness  was  a  bluish 
shade;  they  were  not  large  eyes,  and  their  lashes  were 
short,  and  straight,  and  thick.  Her  nose  was  no  particu- 
lar shape  and  her  mouth  was  drawn  into  a  thin,  cramped 
line.  It  struck  her  father  for  the  first  time  that  she  was 
like  her  Aunt  Effie. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked  her  at  length.  She 
looked  down,  and  he  could  see  her  eyeballs  quiver  under 
their  thick,  dusky  lids. 

"I  am  waiting,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  in  a  deep, 
growling  voice,  "to  see  my  beautiful  Ant."  (Esther 
Oughtenshaw,  he  knew,  said  "Ant.") 

"I   see."     They  regarded   each   other   steadily   for  a 

40 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

moment  and  he  felt  at  a  loss  with  her,  just  as  he  would 
have  felt  with  some  grown  person.  He  must  provide 
against  her  offending  her  aunt,  but  how  should  he  do  it? 
He  rose  and  went  into  the  scullery,  shutting  the  door  be- 
hind him. 

"Esther,"  he  said,  "you  have  been  telling  her  tales 
about  her  Aunt  Marcia!" 

Esther  regarded  him  squarely  as  she  went  on  with  her 
work  of  polishing  forks  with  a  yellow  powder  and  a  tooth- 
brush. 

"Ah  hov  not,"  she  said. 

"But — somebody  must  have  told  her  that  her  Aunt 
Marcia  is  beautiful." 

"And  so  she  was,  sir,  in  her  young  days ;  well  I  remem- 
ber  " 

"Yes,  I  know  all  that,  but '  he  struggled  with  a 

laugh  and  then  gave  way  to  it.  "Yes,  that  may  all  be, 
but  her  ladyship  is  not  beautiful  now,  and  Cuckoo  will 
know  it."  Whimsically  he  wriggled  his  black  eyebrows 
at  the  old  servant,  who  looked  at  him  with  unbroken  grav- 
ity. 

"Aye,  she  will,  the  little  bairn.  She's  sharp 
enough " 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  "that  what  I  am  afraid  of  is — 
she  is  only  just  four — and  if  she  sees  that  this  beautiful 
aunt  is  not  beautiful — well,  she  might  say  so.  Her  lady- 
ship wouldn't  like  that !" 

"No-o — her  ladyship  would  not,  Mr.  Bloondell." 

Having  finished  the  dry-scouring  of  her  forks  and 
spoons,  Esther  Oughtenshaw  took  a  deep  pan  and  filled 
it  with  hot  water  from  the  brass  tap  in  the  stove.  Cuckoo 
was  still  sitting  on  the  table,  staring  before  her  in  her 
odd  immobility. 

"Are  you  a  good  girl?"  Esther  asked,  as  she  passed  on 
her  way  back  to  the  scullery,  and  Blundell  was  amused 

41 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

to  catch  the  impeccable  Yorkshire  in  which  the  tiny  crea- 
ture answered. 

"Aye,  Esther  Oughtenshaw — a'm  a  good  girl,  an'  all." 

Blundell  lifted  her  down  and  took  her  on  his  lap  by  the. 
window  which,  in  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the  afternoon, 
was  tightly  closed. 

"Cuckoo,"  he  said  in  French,  "I  am  going  to  take  you 
to  see  your  new  aunt ;  she  is  very  kind  and  is  going  to  be 
very  good  to  you." 

The  child  interrupted  him.  "What  is  she  going  to  give 
me?"  she  asked. 

The  solemn  eagerness  of  her  small  face  was  very  funny, 
but  even  the  irrepressible  Blundell  did  not  quite  laugh. 

"You  must  not  think,"  he  informed  her,  with  ridicu- 
lously keen  appreciation  of  the  similarity  of  his  own  view- 
point and  his  daughter's,  "you  must  not  think  that  she  is 
going  to  give  you  something.  Poor  Auntie,  she  has  no 
little  girl,  you  must  be  kind  and  good  to  her."  His  voice 
faltered  as  he  hid  his  face  in  her  soft  hair,  which  felt 
like  the  fur  of  some  small  animal  and  smelt  of  rosemary. 
"She  is  a  dear  old  lady,  you  know" — ("How  furious  she 
would  be!"  he  broke  off  to  himself) — "and  you  must  not 
say  anything  about  her  hair  or — or  anything.  It  is  rude 
to  speak  of  people's  looks,  you  know." 

"I  know,  Father." 

He  sighed  with  relief.  "Of  course  you  do,  such  a  big 
girl  as  you.  I  want  to  be  proud  of  my  little  girl,"  he  went 
on,  envisaging  himself,  in  all  his  pathos,  as  the  Wifeless 
Man  with  His  Child. 

After  a  moment  he  added,  "You  are  the  only  little  girl 
I  have,  you  know,"  and  the  young  Cuckoo  Blundell,  after 
licking  a  button  of  her  father's  coat,  looked  up  into  his 
face  and  returned  with  unblemished  gravity: 

"And  you  are  the  only  father  I  have." 


CHAPTER  IV 

CONTRARY  to  his  apprehensions,  Blundell  had  the 
satisfaction  of  beholding  his  babe  play  into  his 
hands  regarding  her  latest  aunt,  in  a  way  that 
would  have  done  her  credit,  or  discredit,  years  later  on 
in  her  career.  Silent  as  her  almost  Englishless  condition 
forced  her  to  be — except  with  Esther,  with  whom  she  chat- 
tered by  the  hour,  the  Yorko-Frankish  dialogue  appar- 
ently giving  both  of  them  satisfaction — Cuckoo's  habit 
of  planting  herself  in  front  of  Lady  Fabricius  and  gazing 
at  her  in  ardent  contemplation,  was,  tactfully  interpreted 
by  her  father,  a  custom  endearing  rather  than  otherwise 
to  her  august  relation. 

Lady  Fabricius  never  told,  and  Cuckoo  could  not  tell 
to  anyone  but  her  father,  of  an  awful  event  that  took  place 
one  morning  at  an  hour  when  every  one  of  the  house- 
hold was  supposed  to  be  safely  out  of  the  way,  and  the  old 
lady,  in  a  loose  dressing-gown,  was  rolling  comfortably 
towards  the  bath-room.  Most  of  her  hair  was  on  her 
dressing-table,  and  her  face,  as  the  French  so  expressively 
put  it,  was  not  yet  "made." 

Just  as  she  reached  the  bathroom-door,  Cuckoo  ap- 
peared from  downstairs,  and  Aunt  Marcia,  who  had  the 
previous  evening  been  put  into  an  excellent  state  of  mind 
about  the  child  by  her  fascinated  gaze,  now  stooped  to 
conquer. 

"Good  morning,  my  love,"  she  said  graciously,  adding 
in  the  French,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  of  most  old 
English  ladies,  "Bong  jour"  then,  "Venney  ici,  give  me 

43 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  kiss,"  and  leaning  down,  she  bent  her  large,  flaccid, 
and  alas!  early-morning  face  towards  the  little  maid  in 
the  blue  overall. 

"Donney-mwaw  wn  bay  say,"  she  added  graciously. 

Disaster  followed.  Cuckoo's  odd,  quick  black  eyes  gazed 
at  her  for  one  moment  distended  as  if  they  were  about 
to  crack,  and  then,  with  a  really  horrid  shriek,  the  child 
fled  down  the  kitchen  stairs  as  if  the  "dowl"  were  after 
her.  She  was  so  terrified,  poor  little  thing,  that  she  did 
something  almost  unknown  in  their  short  mutual  career; 
she  fled  to  her  father  for  comfort.  In  broken,  baby  French 
she  sobbed  that  a  dreadful  old  man  upstairs  had  wanted 
to  kiss  her,  and  she  knew  it  was  le  Pere  Ga?'ou — a  local 
bugbear  dear  to  Anne  Rose  Ponchaux — le  Pere  Garou, 
who  bit  the  fingers  of  bad  children  and  sucked  their  blood 
till  they  died. 

"But  you  were  not  bad,"  her  embarrassed  parent  told 
her,  afraid,  in  view  of  future  revelations  on  her  part,  to 
avow  the  truth.  The  child  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  voui,"  she  declared  in  her  peasant  French,  "elle 
en  est  une — elle  est  sale  dosse,  sale  dosse,"  and  she  was 
inconsolable  until  Esther  Oughtenshaw  came  to  the 
rescue  and  carried  her  off  to  feed  the  chickens  in  the  pad- 
dock behind  the  kitchen  garden.  The  fact  that  his  child 
had  been  called  a  "sale  gosse"  did  not  at  all  afflict  Mr. 
Blundell.  Anne  Rose,  though  rough,  had  been  an  excellent 
nurse  and  a  clean,  decent  body,  and  what  she  had  called 
his  child  was  only  what  she  would  have  called  her  own 
if  it  had  lived ;  but  it  would  be  dreadful  if  Lady  Fabricius 
ever  found  out  the  interpretation  put  by  the  child  she 
was  meant  to  befriend,  on  her  unadorned  matutinal  ap- 
pearance. However,  the  old  lady  never  referred  to  the 
matter  again,  and  when,  at  lunch-time,  she  appeared  with 
a  slight  touch  of  brown  in  her  make-up  (a  delicate  tribute 
to  the  strength  of  the  Wiskedale  sun),  Cuckoo  kissed 

44 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

her  obediently,  without  recognizing  in  her  aunt  the  hor- 
rible vieillard  whom  she  had  met  outside  the  bathroom- 
door. 

Lady  Fabricius  had  come,  she  invariably  expressed  it, 
all  that  way  on  purpose  to  see  Robert  Blundell,  and  after 
about  a  week's  rest  which,  to  the  invalid's  huge  joy,  she 
declared  ought  to  work  wonders  for  her  complexion,  she 
announced  at  last  that  a  family  council  must  be  held  re- 
garding the  matter  about  which  her  advice  had  been 
asked. 

The  council  was  held  that  afternoon  under  the  elm- 
tree,  for  the  wind  had  changed  and  the  west  side  of  the 
garden  was  too  warm. 

Lady  Fabricius,  with  a  demeanor  that  betrayed  her 
being  thoroughly  used  to  serving  on  committees,  installed 
herself  with  her  back  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  a  table  in 
front  of  her.  She  had  also  seen  to  it  that  the  chairs  of  the 
others  faced  her  across  the  table.  Miss  Effie  and  Miss 
Flora  had  been  sewing,  but  their  sister  bade  them  lay 
aside  their  work  to  enable  them  to  give  their  whole  mind 
to  the  matter  in  hand.  They  obeyed  her  in  silence,  and 
then,  when  their  hands  were  quietly  folded  in  their  laps, 
and  Blundell,  whose  cough  was  very  troublesome  that 
day,  had  swallowed  some  soothing  draught,  Lady 
Fabricius  began. 

"I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  three  weeks  ago  that  your 
health  was  in  such  an  unsatisfactory  state,  Robert.  You 
doubtless  exaggerate  the  gravity  of  your  condition 
but " 

"Perhaps,"  he  interrupted,  quietly  looking  towards  the 
west  where,  under  a  heavy,  hot,  blue  sky,  Laverock  lay 
spread  out  as  if  basking  in  the  heat,  "but  it  is  a  nuisance 
having  a  bit  of  your  lung  gone  so  that  your  heart  is  un- 
covered  " 

"Robert  I"  It  was  Miss  Flora  who  uttered  the  soft 

45 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ejaculation  of  horror;  Miss  Effie  continued  to  stare  at 
her  brown,  bony  hands. 

"Sorry,  Flora,  but  it  is  true.  I  am,  in  fact,  rather 
vain  of  being  able  to  go  on  living  with  practically  no  lung 
left  at  all.  However,  Marcia  may  be  right,  and  it  may 
not  matter.  Go  on,  Marcia." 

Lady  Fabricius,  her  oily  black  eyebrows  drawn  down 
over  her  eyes  in  displeasure  at  the  interruption,  went  on. 

Blundell,  as  he  watched  her,  knew  that  he  would  not 
forget  the  picture  that  she  made.  From  where  he  sat, 
propped  by  his  pillows,  but  still  very  low,  his  eldest  sister- 
in-law  quite  hid  the  trunk  of  the  fine  old  elm  under  which 
they  sat,  with  the  result  that  it  seemed  to  spring  from  her 
broad,  gray  silk  shoulders. 

" — And  I  am  sure  Sir  Adolph  would  agree  with  me," 
the  old  lady  was  saying  as  he  arrived  at  this  point  in  his 
reflections.  He  nodded.  "I  am  sure  he  would,"  he  re- 
turned in  a  voice  of  noble  and  disinterested  conviction, 
"go  on." 

In  his  own  mind,  "Poor  old  devil,  he  simply  has  to — 
and  if  the  tree  grows  out  of  her  shoulders,  its  roots  must 
be — oh,  damn  it — I  must  stop  or  I  shall  laugh!" — and 
he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  of  which  it  struck  him  there 
was  unusually  much  in  Wiskedale. 

" — My  son  Bertie,  of  course,  is  our  heir.  If  my  poor 
daughter  Vera  had  lived,  she  was  to  have  had  five  thou- 
sand a  year  for  life,  but  then" — the  speaker,  whose  voice 
had  sunk  to  a  level  of  melancholy  in  spite  of  the  noble 
sum  mentioned,  assumed  a  livelier  air,  as  of  a  brave  soul 
overcoming  her  grief  to  do  justice  to  minor  matters, 
"she  did  not;  therefore  Bertie,  at  our  deaths,  will  have 
it  all,  except,"  she  added  impressively,  regarding  her  sis- 
ters, "one  or  two  small — very  small — legacies  that  /  shall 
make.  Sir  Adolph  will  make  no  legacies.  Sir  Adolph 
has  no  relatives." 

46 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Blundell,  bored  nearly  to  tears,  fixed  his  eyes  on  a 
narrow  ribbon  of  road  up  Laverock.  Once  he  had  walked 
there,  yes,  by  Jove !  and  he  had  kissed  a  pretty  girl  at  a 
farm  half-way  up !  A  wave  of  self-pity  nearly  submerged 
him  for  a  moment. 

" — And  as  Sir  Adolph  said  to  me,  there  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  provide  for  your  child,  Robert." 

"Don't  bother  about  my  half  of  her,"  Robert  said, 
sitting  up  with  a  jerk,  and  breaking  into  a  fit  of  coughing, 
"let  my  half — starve — so  long  as  you  save — May's 
half." 

Lady  Fabricius  regarded  him  with  disfavor.  "That," 
she  said  shortly,  "is  a  remark  I  consider  in  very  bad  taste, 
Robert.  I  have  come  all  this  way  to  settle  things  with 
you,  and  I  expect  to  be  treated  with  respect." 

Miss  Flora  rose,  and  pouring  out  a  glass  of  water,  gave 
it  to  her  brother-in-law,  who  was  now  fighting  for  his 
breath. 

"Robert  didn't  mean  any  disrespect,  dear  Marcia,  did 
you,  Bob?" 

"No,  no,"  he  gasped,  "of  course  no?.  It  is  only — ah 
well,  go  on,  Marcia." 

Miss  Erne  regarded  him  stonily  while  Miss  Flora  shook 
up  his  pillows,  laid  him  back  on  them,  and  put  some 
lavender-water  on  his  handkerchief;  and  such  was  the 
nature  of  the  poor  wretch  that  it  even  then  hurt  his  vanity 
to  feel  that  Effie  liked  him  no  better  than  she  had  done 
years  ago,  when  she  had  so  bitterly  resented  his  marrying 
her  youngest  sister. 

"I  will  go  on,"  Lady  Fabricius  continued,  "if  you  will 
allow  me  to  do  so.  I  was  saying  that  I  am  willing  to  help 
poor  May's  daughter — poor  May." 

Her  abominable  old  mask  of  a  face  quivered  for  a 
moment  and  her  eyes,  once  large  and  bright,  now  so  lustre- 
less and  fat-embedded,  gleamed  with  the  scant  tears  of 

47 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

old  age.  "She  did  not  marry  you  with  her  eyes  shut, 
but  nevertheless  I  always  pitied  her." 

He  bowed. 

"You  never  were  a  good  man,  Robert."  He  gave  a 
little  peculiar  laugh,  his  pointed  shoulders  hunched  for- 
ward in  an  attempt  at  a  shrug,  and  she  continued — "I 
never  saw  how " 

"Oh,  I  remember  your  cleverness  in  finding  out  all  my 
sins — and  telling  them  to  May.  I  doubt  your  wisdom 
in  doing  so — no  doubt  you  meant  well  and  you  never 
reflected  that  I  might  not  have  been  altogether  to 
blame." 

The  old  lady  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  "Why  were 
you  not  to  blame?" 

A  glimmer  of  amusement  came  to  his  eyes. 

"Of  course  we  are  discussing  one  particular  fault  of 
mine?  Well,  you  remember  what  Shakespeare  said  about 
men  like  me?  I  forget  the  exact  text,  but  it  was  some- 
thing about  'his  multitudinous  heart  incarnadine'," 

Miss  Effie  shook  her  head.  "You  are  wrong,  Robert; 
that  is  what  he  said  about  the  sea." 

"What,"  Miss  Flora  asked  gently,  "has  Shakespeare, 
great  though  he  was,  to  do  with  Cuckoo?" 

They  got  on  better  after  that,  and  with  much  almost 
unbearable  assumption  of  generosity  on  Lady  Fabricius' 
part  and  a  certain  amount  of  only  half-concealed  anger 
on  Blundell's,  matters  were  settled  and  the  council  came 
to  an  end. 

The  two  Misses  Plues  were  to  bring  up  and  educate  the 
young  Cuckoo  Blundell  in  consideration  of  a  hundred 
pounds  a  year  paid  to  them  by  Lady  Fabricius.  Further- 
more, when  the  child  was  eighteen  or  nineteen  she  was, 
if  she  proved  satisfactory,  to  be  brought  out  in  London 
society  by  Lady  Fabricius,  with  a  view  to  finding  a 
husband,  and  when  she  was  twenty-one  the  sum  of  two 

48 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

hundred  pounds  a  year  was  to  be  settled  on  her  for  life, 
irrespective  of  her  marrying  or  not  marrying.  One  of 
the  father's  stipulations  was  an  odd  one.  Barring  condi- 
tions of  health  which  might  make  such  a  step  imperative, 
Cuckoo  was  not  to  leave  the  dale;  she  was  to  be  brought 
up  entirely  at  Roseroofs. 

"I  want  to  wear  out  if  I — if  you  can,"  he  declared, 
"the  roving  drop  which  is  in  her  blood.  It  has  been  the 
ruin  of  me,  and  I  fear  she  will  have  it.  Restlessness,  not 
money,  is  the  root  of  all  evil." 

Lady  Fabricius  agreed  with  the  sentiment  and  said  so. 

"You  are  wiser  than  I  thought,  Robert,"  she  returned. 
"You  were  a  bad  husband,  but  if  you  were  spared,  you 
might  perhaps,  after  all,  be  a  good  father." 

He  laughed  as  he  rose.  "I  am  tired  and  will  go  and 
lie  down  if  you  will  excuse  me.  I  am  very  grateful  to 
you,  Marcia.  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  all,"  he  added 
impressively.  "As  to  my  badness  as  a  husband,  perhaps 
if  you  had  seen  my  wife  at  the  end  of  her  life  she  would 
have  disagreed  with  you  on  that  point  more  than  you 
now  think  possible." 

He  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  pool  of  shade  in  which 
the  three  women  sat,  and  in  the  bright  sunshine  his  skull- 
like  face  looked,  with  its  black  hollows  and  lines,  like  a 
fire-gutted  house.  There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which 
each  of  the  sisters  silently  told  herself  that  he  was  dying. 

Lady  Fabricius  went  home  a  few  days  later,  leaving 
little  hope  that  she  would  come  again  before  seven  more 
years  passed.  The  journey  to  London  had  few  horrors 
for  her,  but  the  coming  all  the  way  to  Wiskedale  would, 
she  indicated,  hardly  bear  contemplation.  Out  of  the 
confused  chatter  that  composed  what  she  believed  to  be 
her  really  delightful  conversation,  had  shone  one  glimmer 
of  reason.  "The  child,"  she  said,  as  she  made  her  adieux 

49 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

to  the  child's  father,  expressing  the  hope  that,  in  spite  of 
his  exaggerated  despondency,  he  soon  might  be  better, 
"the  child  had  better  be  told  nothing  about  the  money 
or  that  she  is  ever  to  come  to  London.  It  might  unsettle 
her." 

And  after  her  departure-,  the  two  ladies  and  Blundell 
decided  to  accept  this  pearl  of  prudence  at  its  real  value, 
disregarding,  as  Blundell  for  his  part  minutely  expressed 
it,  its  preposterous  source.  Cuckoo  should  not  be  told. 

Having  done  his  best  for  his  poor  little  daughter  in 
thus  securing  her  a  home  and  a  fixed  competence,  Blun- 
dell's  strange,  shifting  mind  was  at  rest.  That  may  have 
been  one  reason  why  he  seemed  to  grow  better  as  July 
drew  on. 

The  days  were  quiet  days,  full  of  sunshine.  Blundell 
amused  himself  by  reading,  by  his  periodical  battles  with 
old  Brigworthy,  and  his  unfeigned  interest  in  the  country- 
side news.  His  memory  for  names  was  very  remarkable, 
and  as  the  bits  of  gossip  and  items  of  interest  he 
stowed  away  in  his  brain  were  never  forgotten,  he  often 
surprised  the  sisters  by  the  really  intimate  knowledge 
he  showed  of  the  history  of  the  neighbouring  villages  and 
farmers.  "He  didn't  marry  a  Brigworthy,"  he  would 
say,  "he  married  a  Christie;  the  other  sister  married  a 
Cavage  from  Bellanside,"  or,  "Watlass'  girl  from  the  mill 
is  going  to  marry  young  Skelton,  I  tell  you ;  old  Skelton's 
boy  whose  mother  was  a  Raw,"  and  he  was  always  right. 
Much  of  this  lore  he  gathered  from  Benjie,  who  was  an 
incorrigible  gossip  of  the  worst  male  type,  and  a  real  dyed- 
in-the-wool  male  gossip  is,  as  most  intelligent  people  know, 
far  more  virulent  a  specimen  than  any  mere  female. 

He  liked  Benjie  Brigworthy,  who  looked  older  than 
anyone  nowadays  could  possibly  be,  and  who,  though  he 
could  make  himself  perfectly  clear  if  he  chose,  spoke  on 

50 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

occasion  what  was  Choctaw  to  Blundell;  and  presently 
it  transpired  that  the  old  rascal  was  sedulously  imparting 
some  of  his  most  incomprehensible  words  to  Cuckoo.  The 
child  for  some  reason  or  other  was  enraptured  with  the 
bandy-legged,  cross-grained  old  fellow,  whose  long  work- 
ing in  the  earth  seemed  in  a  way  to  have  caused  the  earth 
to  take  him  to  herself  before  his  time.  He  looked,  in  his 
ancient  brown  clothes  and  his  always  muddy,  leathern 
gaiters,  as  if  he  lived,  like  potatoes,  under  the  ground, 
though  unlike  potatoes,  he  spent  most  of  his  time  on  the 
surface. 

There  was  a  legend  that  once,  when  Benjie  was  a  young 
thing  of  forty,  the  doctor,  rash  and  ill-advised,  had,  in 
some  minor  illness,  ordered  him  a  bath.  At  Benjie's 
protest  the  doctor,  young  and  full  of  the  foolishness  that 
comes  out  of  cities,  insisted,  whereupon  Benjie,  bowing 
to  the  inevitable,  took  the  bath — in  his  kitchen,  by  the 
fire,  in  a  wash-tub — and  proved  the  doctor's  folly  and  his 
own  wisdom  by  nearly  dying  of  "pewmonia."  Three 
nights  did  the  wretched  doctor  sit  by  him  and  had  Benjie 
died  he  must  have  left  the  dale,  but  in  Benjie's  feverish 
eyes  the  doctor  always  declared  he  read  triumph  and 
pleasure,  even  in  the  midst  of  undoubtedly  great  suffer- 
ing; he  finally  made  up  his  mind  to  relent  and  live,  and 
the  young  man  from  Leeds,  now  old  Dr.  Dawes,  was 
nearly  as  thoroughly  associated  with  the  dale  as  Benjie 
himself. 

Mondays  and  Fridays  were  Benjie's  days  at  Rose- 
roofs,  and  these  days  Miss  Blundell  set  aside  for  complete 
devotion  to  the  object  of  her  admiration.  It  was  never 
noticeable  to  her  father  that  Benjie  showed  any  par- 
tiality to  the  child;  the  boot  was  entirely  on  the  other 
leg,  and  Cuckoo  showered  favors  on  the  old  man.  She 
gave  him  gooseberry  turnovers  to  which  she  had  herself 
no  legal  right;  she  gave  him  a  long  piece  of  blue  satin 

51 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ribbon.  With  fervor  she  would  kiss  his  earthy  hands, 
and  she  would  sit  literally  for  hours  at  a  time  on  an 
upturned  flower-pot,  watching  him  as  he  dawdled  about 
at  his  work. 

"It  is  a  pity,  Robert,"  Miss  Effie  said  once,  "that 
Cuckoo  insists  on  being  so  much  with  Benjie  Brigworthy. 
He  is  an  up-dale  man  and  his  language  is  quite  un- 
English." 

"She  seems  to  like  it." 

"That  makes  it  worse."  Miss  Effie's  mouth  set  tightly, 
as  she  spread  a  tea-cake.  "She  is  beginning  to  pretend 
to  have  forgotten  French.  She  called  the  ivy  on  the  wall 
'hvvan,'  this  morning,  and  when  I  told  her  'ivy'  or  'lierre,' 
which  is  the  French,  she  flatly  refused  to  use  either 
word." 

Blundell  laughed.  "She  will  stop  when  she  has  had 
enough,"  he  said.  "Why  she  likes  Benjie,  the  Lord  only 
knows.  I  don't  like  having  him  come  'twixt  the  wind  and 
my  nobility,  but  apparently  she  enjoys  his  savor.  She's 
an  odd  imp." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Benjie  was  heard 
to  make  a  long  and  quite  incomprehensible  remark,  to 
which  the  child  replied,  obviously  understanding  it  all, 
with  a  singsong  "Aye,  Benjie." 

Blundell  burst  out  laughing  at  Miss  Effie's  frown  of 
disgust,  but  later,  when  he  was  alone  with  Miss  Flora, 
he  reverted  to  the  subject. 

"I  say,  Flora,"  he  began  as  she  threaded  her  needle 
with  silk  and  took  up  her  work. 

"Yes,  Bob." 

"Do  you  mind  Cuckoo's  talking  like  old  Ben?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed  I  do.  It  is  a  very  ugly  dialect,  anii 
not  at  all  fitted  for  a  little  lady-girl." 

"I  see.  Well,  look  here,  if  you  really  care  about  it 
and  want  her  to  stop,  you  must  bribe  her.  I  dare  not 

52 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

tell  Effie,  but  that  is  the  truth;  if  you  want  her  to  stop, 
you  must  bribe  her." 

Miss  Flora's  horror-filled  eyes  half  amused,  half 
touched  him. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  say  you  will  give  her  something  if  she 
will  learn  proper  English." 

"But — that  is  a  very  bad  precedent  to  establish, 
Robert,"  spoke  the  ex-governess  in  Miss  Flora. 

"I  know,  but  you  will  find  it  is  the  only  way.  It 
always  was — she  is  not  an  ordinary  child,  Flora,  and  not 
an  easy  one  to  manage." 

"Then  so  much  more  must  we  strive," 

"Strive  as  much  as  you  like,  but  when  she  has  set 
her  mind  on  anything  as  it  is  set  on  speaking  like  Benjie, 
you  will  find  the  only  way  to  detach  her  is  to  give  her 
something  she  likes  even  more  than  the  thing  itself." 

"It's  dreadful,  Robert." 

"Possibly,  but  it  is  true.  Shall  we  prove  it?"  Miss 
Flora  gazed  at  him  in  visible  distress,  but  said  nothing. 

"Cuckoo,"  he  called  in  French,  "come  here  a  minute." 
Then  he  added,  "Have  you  that  smelling  thing,  that 
carbolic  ball  in  the  tartan  box  with  you?" 

Miss  Flora  produced  the  little  oblong  box  in  shining 
Stuart  plaid.  It  opened  by  a  spring,  and  a  little  sponge, 
dark  with  age  and  strongly  impregnated  with  carbolic, 
bobbed  out  at  the  end  of  a  short  cord.  When  Cuckoo 
appeared,  dragging  a  spade  over  the  flagstones  with  a 
hard,  grating  noise,  her  eyes  at  once  fell  on  it  and  glowed 
with  the  lust  of  possession. 

"Donne"  she  said,  holding  out  an  earthy  paw. 

"Non,  non,"  her  father  intervened,  continuing  in 
French. 

Miss  Flora  could  not  follow  what  he  said,  but  at  the 
end  of  it,  the  child  turned  on  her  and  demanded  fiercely 
in  Benjie's  best  accent,  "Is  yon  a  lee?" 

53 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Your  papa  does  not  tell  lies,"  poor  Miss  Flora  ex- 
claimed, blushing  afterwards  at  the  "lee"  she  herself 
had  told,  "of  course  it  is  true.  What  was  it,  Robert?" 

He  laughed.  "Poor  Flora!  I  told  her  that  if  she 
would  learn  to  speak  English  nicely  and  not  use  old  Ben- 
jie's  language — she  did  not  even  know  it  was  supposed 
to  be  English — you  would  give  her  the  carbolic  ball." 

"C*est  v'aiy  c'est  v'ai,  ma  tante?"  the  child  urged,  her 
eyes  glued  to  the  box. 

Miss  Flora  nodded  solemnly. 

Cuckoo  took  the  little  box,  pressed  the  spring,  and 
watched  the  bounce  of  the  ball  with  a  look  of  concentra- 
tion unusual  in  one  so  young.  Then,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Miss  Flora,  she  raised  the  sponge  to  her  nose  and  sniffed 
it  with  ecstasy. 

"Oo-ah!"  she  cried,  crumpling  her  face  and  expelling 
her  breath  in  an  audible  sigh  of  rapture,  "c'est  bon." 

The  promise  was  then  extracted  from  her  to  avoid 
Benjie  for  a  few  days  and  try  to  learn  proper  English 
from  her  aunts,  to  the  end  that  she  might  come  into  pos- 
session of  the  supreme  treasure,  as  soon  as  it  was  seen 
that  she  was  really  learning. 

Miss  Flora,  the  child's  hand  in  hers,  explained  the 
situation  to  the  gardener,  who  spat  on  his  palms,  thereby 
producing  small  bogs  in  them,  and  listened  grimly. 

"You  know,  Benjie,"  Miss  Flora  wound  up,  "you  can 
speak  very  nicely."  His  old  face  did  not  change;  flat- 
tery was  without  effect  on  Benjie  Brigworthy  and  he 
happened  for  no  specific  reason  to  dislike  Miss  Flora, 
whom,  one  is  regretful  to  state,  he  privately  called  what 
is  equivalent  to  an  "old  fool."  "She  is  very  little  as 
you  know,  Benjie,"  pursued  Miss  Flora,  "and  she  must 
learn  English  and  I  am  sure  you  will  help  her  by  speaking 
good  English  with  her." 

"Aw  will  not,"  the  old  man  very  unexpectedly  re- 

54 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

turned.  "If  she  cooms,  aw'll  soon  scare  her  away,  making 
faces  at  her,"  and  by  way  of  proving  the  possibility  of 
frightening  the  renegade  in  whose  coat,  so  to  speak,  he 
had  not  failed  to  see  the  metaphorical  ribbon,  he  made 
such  a  hideous  grimace  that  Cuckoo  gave  a  wild  yell 
and  fled  like  a  flash  into  the  house. 

Miss  Flora  stood  indignant,  too  nonplussed  to  say  more 
to  the  villain  of  the  piece,  and  went  back  to  her  chair, 
where  she  found  Blundell  convulsed  with  laughter. 

"I  never  knew  him,"  she  declared,  "to  do  such  a  thing 
before.  And  in  my  presence!"  she  exclaimed. 

Meantime  Cuckoo,  in  the  kitchen,  was  partaking  of  an 
illicit  and  solitary  meal  of  stewed  gooseberries,  bread 
and  butter,  and  cream,  the  carbolic  ball  on  the  table 
beside  her.  This  heavy  bribe  was  removed  from  her 
by  her  Aunt  Flora  a  little  later  and  put  on  the  mantel- 
piece in  the  drawing-room,  where  it  could  be  seen  but 
not  reached  by  its  admirer;  and  from  that  hour  Cuckoo 
Blundell  began  to  learn  English. 

It  was  the  old  vicar,  Dr.  Loxley,  who  subsequently 
discovered  the  source  of  the  child's  love  for  the  old  gar- 
dener's dialect. 

"I  understand,"  the  old  gentleman  said,  as  they  all 
sat  at  tea  the  day  after  his  return  from  one  of  his  book- 
hunting  expeditions  to  Edinburgh,  "that  the  nurse  who 
took  care  of  her  was  a  peasant." 

"Yes,  she  came  from  Vaubin,  near  Orange ;  an  excellent 
woman." 

"I  see.  Then,  my  idear  Mr.  Blundell,  it  is  clear  that 
the  child  has  in  her  intercourse  with  Benjie  Brigworthy 
the  equivalent  of  the  nurse's  language  to  which  she  was 
accustomed  in  France." 

"But  surely,  dear  Dr.  Loxley,"  Miss  Flora  put  in  flut- 
teringly,  "Benjie  does  not  speak  in  the  least  like  a  French 
woman." 

55 


THE  BAG  OP  SAFFRON 

"No,  Flora,  no;  oh,  no,  no!  No,  not  at  all;  but  the 
French  woman  spoke  a  homely  dialect  that  no  doubt 
smacked  of  the  earth,  and  you  cannot  deny  that  Benjie's 
jargon  also  smacks  of  the  earth," — 

"Benjie  smacks  of  several  things  besides  the  earth,"  put 
in  Blundell  lazily. 

The  vicar  laughed.  "Quite  so,  and  even  that  might 
be  a  comfort  to  a  homesick  child  used  to  living  among 
peasants.  It  seems  to  me  quite  clear  that  the  very  rough- 
ness and  simplicity  of  Benjie's  ugly  dialect  has  been  more 
homelike  to  the  little  girl  than,  let  us  say,  Miss  Effie's 
scholarly  French." 

Miss  Erne's  dark  face  took  on  an  uncomfortable  brick- 
red  as  she  bent  over  her  knitting  at  this  allusion  to  her 
linguistic  gift.  Her  belief  in  her  French  was  one  of  the 
dearest  possessions  of  the  lonely,  oldening  woman;  an 
illusion  of  her  lost  youth.  She  had  been  told  in  the  old 
days  by  the  Binghams  that  her  then  newly-achieved 
French  was  excellent — as  indeed  it  was  compared  with  that 
of  the  Binghams — and  she  had  believed  it  then  and  she 
believed  it  still. 

It  gratified  her  to  have  this  accomplishment  praised 
by  Dr.  Loxley,  and  as  the  talk  went  on,  Miss  Effie's  mind 
went  back  as  it  often  did  to  the  three  years  she  had  spent 
in  Angouleme,  where  she  was  La  Meess  to  the  children 
of  a  rich  wine  merchant.  How  polite  they  had  all  been! 
— Adele,  the  little  Blaise,  with  his  soft  cropped  hair 
like  a  mole's,  and  Anastasie,  only  three  years  old  when  La 
Meess  arrived.  How  kind  they  had  all  been  to  her,  with 
their  supreme  offering  of  carefully-boiled  tea,  and  their 
unsuccessfully-veiled  relief  at  the  smallness  and  unob- 
trusiveness  of  her  teeth ! 

That  rainy  afternoon  while  the  Vicar  held  forth,  his 
tea-cup  pushed  back  so  as  to  make  more  room  on  the 
table  for  his  fat,  dimpled,  white  hands,  Miss  Effie  was 

56 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

back  in  Angouleme.  How  well  she  remembered  it  all! 
How  clearly  she  could  see  the  streets,  how  distinctly  she 
could  hear  the  voices  of  the  children  who  were  now  mid- 
dle-aged men  and  women !  She  recalled  one  day  that,  as 
less  acute  memories  dimmed  with  time  as  dims  an  old 
mirror,  had  for  some  reason,  though  not  itself  an  impor- 
tant day,  kept  all  the  keen  edges  of  its  first  impression. 

It  had  been  a  hot,  drowsy  August  day  and  the  streets 
of  the  little  city  were  as  deserted,  as  somnolent,  as  only 
the  streets  of  southern  cities  can  be.  In  the  Rue  St. 
Gerome  Miss  Effie,  then  a  quickly  moving  Miss  Effie  with 
a  voluminous  green-and-white  frock  and  a  soup-plate  hat, 
apparently  glued  to  her  head  so  miraculous  was  its  angle, 
sat  in  the  cool  courtyard  of  her  wine  merchant's  house, 
talking  to  the  concierge,  Mere  Michel — her  to  whom 
Blaise  and  Anastasie  to  the  Meess's  bewilderment  invari- 
ably referred  as  having  lost  her  cat.  Mere  Michel  with 
her  dark,  wrinkled  face  and  her  thready  old  throat  was, 
had  La  Meess  but  known  it,  a  kind  of  awful  foreshadow- 
ing of  what  she  herself,  then  so  self-confident  in  the 
strength  of  her  twenties,  was  one  (lay  to  become.  As 
Mere  Michel  was  that  day  in  the  sixties,  to-day  at  the 
end  of  the  eighties  was  La  Meess.  But  La  Meess  had 
not  known  as  she  sat  in  the  shade,  while  Mere  Michel  in 
her  rush-bottomed  chair  knitted  in  the  flashing,  clicking 
way  of  French  women.  She  whose  day  was  just  begin- 
ning looked  pityingly  at  her  whose  day  was  done. 

"II  est  ires  beau,"  La  Meess  declared,  pressing  her 
engraved  gold  bracelet  over  the  scalloped  edge  of  one 
of  her  short,  green  gloves,  a  Parisian  gift  from  Madam 
Duroy,  "je  vais  prendre  une  promenade" 

Mere  Michel  regarded  her  for  a  moment  and  then 
dropped  her  bead-like  old  eyes  on  her  knitting. 

"Meess  fait  du  progres"  she  declared,  untruthfully 
but  with  benevolent  intention.  So  la  Meess,  very  pleased, 

57 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

went  to  "prendre  her  promenade."  How  hot  it  was! 
The  heat  was  indeed  a  delicately  visible  thing,  hovering 
in  filmy  mists  over  the  baking  cobble-stones;  all  the  win- 
dows were  closed  and  striped  awnings  were  lowered  over 
the  shop  fronts.  Miss  Effie  loved  the  great  heat,  although 
M.  Duroy  himself  had  condescended  to  warn  her  that  it 
was  an  act  of  the  foolish  folly  to  venture  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  The  ladies  of  France,  he  assured  her, 
in  answer  to  her  funny  little  Anglo-Frank  protest, 
allowed  themeselves  at  that  time  two  hours'  retirement 
en  deshabille. 

"C'est  I'heure  £  croquer  les  bonbons"  the  good  man 
added. 

La  Meess  failed  to  see  why  the  middle  hours  of  the  day 
should  be  wholly  dedicated  to  bonbons,  but  she  said,  as 
in  those  days  she  always  did  say  in  return  for  remarks 
she  did  not  quite  understand,  "Out,  oui,  je  vois"  and  went 
away. 

On  that  particular  day,  a  day  that  out  of  so  many  for- 
gotten ones  had  remained  in  her  memory,  so  clear,  so 
unblurred,  she  had  gone  to  the  PlUce  to  change  her  book 
at  the  Library  and  rested  a  few  minutes  in  the  warm  old 
shop  that  smelt  of  books  and  cheese,  for  the  reason  that 
its  neighbor  on  one  side  was  a  cheesemonger's.  Then  she 
went  to  the  Horloger's  for  Madam  Duroy's  watch,  which 
had  undergone  a  minor  operation  there,  and  after  post- 
ing her  home  letter  La  Meess  stopped  at  Chaquard's,  and 
sitting  at  a  little  marble  table  under  the  striped  awning, 
partook  of  a  pineapple-ice.  This  was  her  passion,  pine- 
apple-ices served  as  only  Chaquard  served  them,  in  little 
colored  glass  cups. 

Miss  Effie  was  the  only  customer  at  that  unusual  time 
of  day  and  sat  very  stiff,  very  shy  in  the  wilderness  of 
little  green  iron  chairs  and  marble-topped  tables,  wishing 
the  two  sleepy-looking  waiters  would  not  stare  so. 

58 


Poor  Antoine,  poor  Hegesippe !  Of  course  they  stared, 
drowsy  and  warm  as  they  were,  at  the  singular  Miss  who 
partook  of  ices  at  such  an  unheard-of  hour. 

That  was  in  Miss  EffiVs  first  summer  at  Angouleme. 
She  stayed  on  for  three  years  and  she  learned  French  in  a 
way,  for  she  set  herself  to  learn  it  and  her  diligence  was, 
of  course,  rewarded.  (The  invariability  of  its  reward  is 
indeed  the  only  excuse  for  diligence,  a  very  lazy  man 
once  said  to  her,  a  remark  of  which  she  quite  properly 
disapproved.) 

And  during  her  three  years  in  the  pleasant,  character- 
istic old  city,  some  delightful,  a  few  painful,  and  one  very 
wonderful  thing  happened  to  her;  this  last  actually  a 
proposal  of  marriage  from  Mr.  Duroy's  partner.  But 
when,  as  now,  she  could  sit,  her  silence  covered  by  the 
chatter  of  other  people,  and  undisturbed  and  unobserved 
go  back  across  the  plain  of  her  uneventful  years,  it  was 
that  August  day  when  she  had  eaten  a  pineapple-ice  all 
alone  among  the  tables  at  Chaquard's,  which  seemed  to 
incorporate  her  experience  in  France. 

Sometimes  it  had  rained  in  Angouleme,  and  then  all 
the  windows  were  shut  and  no  one  went  out.  A  noisy 
summer  rain  was  pelting  against  the  window  of  the  dining- 
room  as  Miss  Effie  reached  this  point  of  her  little  excur- 
sion into  the  past,  and  through  the  west  window  near 
which  she  sat,  came  the  sound  of  the  great  ash  tossing 
its  boughs  in  the  wind. 

"So  he  is  coming  home  to-morrow."  The  Vicar  was 
filling  his  pipe  as  La  Meess  melted  away  and  Miss  Effie 
looked  up. 

"Who  is  coming,  Vicar?"  she  asked  with  great  brisk- 
ness ;  "the  tree  is  so  noisy,  I  did  not  quite  hear." 

"George."  The  old  man  smiled  at  her  as  he  struck  a 
match.  "Of  course  he  ought  to  have  stayed  on  till  the 

59 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

first,    but    after    all,    one    can   get    measles    twice," 

"Of  course  one  can."  Miss  Effie  rose,  putting  her 
knitting  into  her  work-bag.  "Well,  I'm  glad  he  is  com- 
ing; I  like  George  and  I  do  not  believe  he  is  any  too 
strong.  Why  you  sent  him  south  I  never  could  see,  you 
know,  Vicar,  when  there  were  such  good  schools  at  home. 
The  poor  child  must  miss  the  Air."  Miss  Effie  always 
spoke  as  if  there  was  no  air  of  any  kind  south  of  Leeds. 

Blundell,  who  was  lying  on  the  brown  leather  sofa 
between  the  two  south  windows,  spoke,  sitting  up  slowly. 

"How  old  did  you  say  your  grandson  was,  Dr.  Lox- 
ley?"  he  asked  hoarsely,  clearing  his  throat,  which  had 
been  bad  all  day. 

"He  is  nearly  nine,  but  he  doesn't  look  more  than 
seven;  he  has  always  been  delicate.  But  you  must  hear 

him  sing — you  must  hear  him  sing.    It  is  like — well ' 

the  old  man  broke  off,  "isn't  it,  Flora?" 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  him  sing,"  Blundell  interrupted. 
"I  can't  stand  boys'  voices,  they  always  make  me  cry." 

Miss  Flora  looked  at  him. 

"Oh,  Bob!" 

"It  does — the  little  brutes  make  one  feel  such,  such — 
well,  unfit  to  hear  them,  you  know." 

He  laughed  again  but  his  poor  voice,  bracketed  by  the 
two  laughs,  was  not  quite  steady  and  the  old  clergyman, 
•who  in  his  heart  had  always  disliked  him,  spoke  up  a"t 
once. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Blundell," 

Robert  Blundell  in  his  turn  knew  what  the  old  Vicar 
ineant  by  thus,  for  the  first  time,  dropping  the  "Mister." 


CHAPTER  V 

GEORGE  LOXLEY  turned  out  to  be,  to  Blundell's 
unexpressed  satisfaction,  a  charming  child,  with 
the  rather  old-fashioned  manners  that  endear  chil- 
dren to  people  who  fundamentally  do  not  like  them. 
George  was  possessed  of  none  of  the  restlessness  which 
makes  sitting  still  an  impossibility  to  most  small  boys, 
nor  was  he  beset  by  a  thirst  for  stories.  For  some  reason 
he  liked  sitting  in  the  shade  with  the  sick  man  but  he 
talked  little,  and  allowed  Blundell,  who  was  possessed  of 
an  insatiable  curiosity,  to  ask  all  the  questions ;  it  is 
pathetic  to  think  that  the  dying  man  of  the  world,  tended 
and  cared  for  by  the  two  sisters  in  a  way  that  no  one 
knew  better  than  himself  he  did  not  deserve,  actually 
longed  for  the  male  child  to  come  and  sit  by  him,  for  the 
reason  that,  although  only  nine,  George  was  at  least  not 
a  kind  and  unselfish  old  woman. 

His  own  ingratitude  was  patent  to  Blundell,  but  he 
could  not  help  being  bored  by  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora, 
unobtrusive  as  they  were,  and  often  he  even  pretended 
to  be  asleep  when  first  one  and  then  the  other  would 
come  quietly  across  the  grass  to  take  a  look  at  him. 
Their  relief  when  his  closed  eyes  and  regular  breathing 
had  deceived  them,  was  quite  visible  to  him  through  his 
lashes,  as  they  returned  to  the  house,  though  he  felt  no 
resentment  at  knowing  that  they  regarded  this  as  a  duty 
and  not  a  pleasure. 

When  he  chose  to  chain  them  for  an  hour  or  so  to  his 
chariot-wheels,  he  could  do  it,  he  knew,  by  simply  allow- 
ing his  indescribable  but  irresistible  charm  to  work.  He 

61 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

had  only  to  open  the  door  of  the  cage  and  even  Miss 
Effie  visibly  softened  towards  him,  whereas  Miss  Flora, 
when  Miss  Effie  was  not  by,  would  become  less  wraith- 
like,  less  like  a  faded  old  goddess,  and  more  like  a  flesh 
and  blood  woman  than  at  other  times.  The  bird,  he  knew, 
could  sing  her  mind  into  subjection,  but  he  always  whistled 
it  back  to  its  cage  very  soon.  Its  voice  tired  him  nowa- 
days, and  its  tricks  brought  him  no  happiness  even  for 
the  moment,  and  as  time  went  on  the  dear  things  bored 
him  more  and  more,  and  no  one  knew  how  strongly  the 
old  lover  of  women,  the  heart-eater  of  a  few  years  before, 
longed  for  the  society  of  men.  Almost  any  man  on  earth 
could  he  have  welcomed  with  enthusiasm,  during  those 
quiet  last  days  of  his  life. 

Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora,  into  whose  peaceful  home  he 
had  for  a  second  time  intruded,  never  dreamt  of  what  he 
wanted.  They  very  naturally  did  not  know  that  men  of 
his  type  always,  when  not  directly  engaged  in  the  pleasures 
of  the  chase,  do  want  the  society  of  men.  What  is  called 
a  woman-lover  has  little  use  for  the  company  of  plain, 
old,  or  impregnably  virtuous  women,  however  intelligent 
and  delightful  to  other  men  these  women  may  be;  and 
Blundell  lay  in  his  chair  a  little  less  alive,  a  little  more 
dead,  every  twenty-four  hours,  waiting  for  the  Vicar, 
the  old  bookworm  who  disliked  him,  and  the  nine-year-old 
George,  whose  one  value  to  the  invalid  was  that  he  was 
not  a  female  child. 

The  Vicar,  kind  man,  vaguely  felt  that  for  some  reason 
poor  Blundell  enjoyed  his  reluctant  visits,  and  nearly 
every  day  he  would  leave  his  beloved  study  and  cross  the 
stepping-stones  and  trot  up  the  winding  path  from  Widdy- 
bank  to  sit  for  an  hour  with  his  friends'  guest.  Ironic- 
ally, it  pleased  Blundell  to  read  the  old  man's  mind,  and 
to  know  at  what  a  sacrifice  of  his  own  comfort  he  was 
[there.  From  the  moment  that  the  well-pressed  black  hat 

62 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

appeared  over  the  wall  to  the  westward,  to  that  when  the 
whole  Vicar  became  visible  beyond  the  gate,  Blundell 
felt  a  wicked,  amused  sense  of  power. 

"He  doesn't  want  to  come,  poor  old  beggar,"  he  would 
reflect,  and  at  the  back  of  his  mind  there  lay  the  uncon- 
scious feeling  "they  have  always  done  it,  all  of  them,  and 
they  do  it  even  now." 

But  he  was  not  all  malice,  any  more  than  anyone  is  all 
anything,  and  very  soon  he  would  find  himself  half  inno- 
cently opening  the  door  of  his  cage,  and  half  unconsciously 
using  his  charm.  Sometimes  he  would  talk  of  books,  of 
which  he  knew  little,  but  in  this  pleasant  field  of  con- 
versation the  old  man  could  almost  roll  like  a  horse  turned 

| 

out  to  grass. 

One  evening,  when  August  was  at  its  beginninr-,  Blun- 
dell, really  touched  by  his  old  visitor's  look  of  fatigue, 
opened  his  cage  and  deliberately  let  the  bird  out.  The 
old  man  had  toiled  up  the  hill  in  the  heat  and  he  must  be 
rewarded,  but  the  bird,  poor  creature,  was  not  the  bird 
of  its  prime:  its  once  lustrous  plumage  had  thinnea  and 
dulled;  its  wing-power  was  nearly  gone;  its  whistle  was 
feeble  and  hoarse.  However,  it  could  still  hop  about  and 
deploy  its  graces,  and  the  Vicar  fell  to  it  at  once.  Quite 
suddenly  he  felt  that  after  all  he  must  have  been  too  hard 
on  the  poor  fellow,  and  all  his  life  the  minute  Robert 
Blundell  arrived  at  being  called  "the  poor  fellow"  by 
a  disapprover,  the  disapprover's  doom,  as  such,  was 
sealed. 

The  old  man  never  could  remember  what  it  was  that 
the  poor  fellow  said  on  that  occasion,  but  henceforth  he 
really  liked  him,  and  when  the  not  distant  day  came  that 
he  stood  at  his  grave,  reading  the  burial  service  over  him, 
tears  rolled  down  the  old  man's  cheeks,  sincere  tears. 

This,  however,  is  not  yet.  It  was  a  fine  afternoon  and 
their  shade-pursuing  course  had  led  them  to  the  jut  of 

63 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

the  house  on  the  east  side,  just  outside  the  low,  white 
paling  of  the  kitchen  garden. 

The  garden  was  full  of  golden  and  red  flowers  now,  and 
even  the  highest  fields  on  the  hill,  those  just  under  the 
naked  moors,  were  shorn  of  their  hay  and  only  pale 
stretches  of  yellow  showed  where  it  had  been.  On  the 
green  outside  the  garden  gate,  George  and  Cuckoo  were 
playing  at  some  quiet  game  such  as  the  boy  loved. 

Blundell  could  see  their  two  heads,  George's  small  and 
mouse-colored,  Cuckoo's  black  and  rough,  as  they  moved 
in  their  play. 

"George  loves  Cuckoo,"  the  Vicar  said  presently,  bent, 
in  the  fervor  of  his  "poor  fellow"  mood,  on  making 
Blundell  happy. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  will  fall  in  love  with  her  later." 

"Good  gracious !  my  dear  Blundell,  why  should  he  ?" 

"Why  shouldn't  he? — unless  he  is  not  here  when  she  is 
the  right  age."  After  a  moment  the  father,  who  gleaned 
much  amused  satisfaction  from  his  observations  of  the 
bird  as  it  so  mildly  devastated  the  garden  of  th'e  Vicar's 
dislike  of  him,  laughed  gently. 

"I  suppose  even  you  men  of  God  know  that  at  a  certain 
age  young  men  must  fall  in  love  with  somebody,"  and 
every  word  of  this  speech  seemed  full  of  charm,  even  now 
was  the  bird's  power  so  great. 

The  Vicar  nodded.  "Of  course,  of  course,"  he  mur- 
mured, "nature  you  know,  nature," 

"Exactly,  well,  that  is  what  I  mean.  If  George  is 
here  when  Cuckoo  is  say,  seventeen,  and  he  has  not  fallen 
in  love  with  some  woman  of  thirty  before  then,  she  will 
try  her  young  spurs  on  him  and,"  he  added,  sitting  up 
suddenly  and  breaking  into  a  fit  of  coughing,  "she  will 
— slash  him!" 

There  was  a  little  pause  until  the  coughing  fit  was  over, 
and  then,  the  sun  having  found  them  out — the  sun  seemed, 

64 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Blundell  complained,  to  pursue  him  with  a  kind  of  malig- 
nance — the  Vicar  called  Esther  Oughtenshaw,  and  the 
little  caravan  moved  to  the  next  oasis ;  back  to  the  south, 
outside  the  dining-room  window  where  the  elm's  thick 
shade  still  lay  unblemished  on  the  grass. 

They  were  still  sitting  here,  the  Vicar  telling  his  new 
friend  all  about  the  last  book  sale  he  had  attejided  and 
at  which  he  had  spent  far  too  much  money,  Blundell 
listening  half  asleep.  The  sound  of  the  children's  voices 
reached  him  now  and  then,  or  a  few  bars  of  a  hymn  from 
Esther  in  the  kitchen. 

A  bird  was  singing  below  in  the  dale;  Blundell  won- 
dered if  it  was  a  lark;  he  wondered  if  the  nightingale 
still  sang  in  the  trees  of  the  little  house  at  Avignon;  he 
wondered  why  peacocks  had  such  horrible  voices — he  was 
asleep. 

When  Miss  Flora  came  springing  round  the  corner, 
wringing  her  hands  with  excitement,  her  eyes  luminous 
with  what  appeared  to  be  a  mixture  of  anguish  and  joy, 
he  woke  with  a  start. 

"Oh,  Robert!  oh,  dear  Vicar!  do  come  into  the  draw- 
ing-room !  He  is  at  the  foot  of  the  steep  bit  already,  and 
will  be  here  in  a  moment — and  we  have  not  a  drop  of 
wine  except  your  port,  Robert!  Esther  is  washing,  and 
there  is  only  cold  mutton  for  supper," 

Blundell  rubbed  his  eyes  and  stared  at  her  in  despair. 
He  had  never  seen  her  so  excited  before,  but  it  was  evident 
that  Doctor  Loxley  was  less  unused  to  such  manifesta- 
tions. 

"My  dear  Flora,"  the  old  gentleman  said  firmly,  rising 
and  looking  at  her  through  the  gold-rimmed  glasses 
without  which  he  would  have  looked,  to  the  village  in 
general,  as  unsuitable  for  public  view  as  he  would  have 
looked  in  his  nightshirt,  "my  dear  Flora,  who  is  coming?" 

Miss  Flora  stopped  short  in  her  hand-wringing  and 

65 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

fluttering,  and  answered  quietly,  "Sir  Peregrine  Jane- 
ways." 

Blundell  stared.  "Janeways!  Nonsense.  Flora,  what 
on  earth  should  Pelly  Janeways  be  doing  in  this  God- 
forsaken— I  mean  to  say," 

But  Miss  Flora  had  not  even  heard  him.  She  was 
explaining  to  the  Vicar  that  they  must  make  haste  if 
they  were  to  be  politely  seated  in  the  drawing-room  in 
time. 

Dr.  Loxley  straightened  his  tie  and  drew  his  fat  hand 
over  his  bald  head. 

"But  we  do  not  want  to  be  in  the  drawing-room,"  he 
explained ;  "if  Sir  Peregrine  wishes  to  see  you  ladies,  you 
can  see  him  there,  of  course.  If  he  has  come  to  see — 
in  part — Blundell — he  will  come  out  here  where  Blundell 
is.  What,"  he  added  oratorically,  waving  his  hand  in  a 
way  that  would  have  adorned  any  pulpit,  "could  be 
nicer?" 

Miss  Flora,  who  was  in  her  shabbiest  frock,  glided  away 
with  incredible  speed,  and  the  Vicar  called  out  to  Esther 
to  bring  more  chairs.  Then  he  sat  down. 

"I  didn't  know  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways  was  at  home," 
he  observed  calmly. 

"At  home?"  A  dark  flush  had  come  into  Blundell's 
hollow  cheeks,  and  was  spreading  up  over  his  cheek  bones. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  at  home?" 

The  irritability  of  extreme  nervousness  jarred  in  his 
voice ;  it  infuriated  him,  this  talk  of  which  he  could  make 
nothing. 

"His  home — the  Janeways'  place  is  only  twelve  miles 
from  here,"  the  Vicar  explained  mildly.  "Didn't  you 
know  ?  And  do  you  know  Janeways  ?'* 

"I  have  known  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways  for  years," 
Blundell  answered  excitedly,  "although  he  is  a  good  bit 
older  than  I  am.  My  dear  Vicar,  we  have  heard  the 

66 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

chimes  at  midnight  together  many  a  time  in  Paris  and 
Italy!  Do  I  know  the  Magnificent!" 

After  a  movement,  he  went  on.  "I  wish  I'd  known  he 
was  near — I'd  have  had  some  one  to  talk  to."  The  bird 
was  indeed  back  in  his  cage. 

The  Vicar,  however,  did  not  mind,  and  a  moment 
later  a  horse  was  heard  off  to  their  right,  coming  up  the 
road  from  the  dale. 

Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora,  without  a  word  on  the  sub- 
ject of  dress,  had  with  an  almost  miraculous  rapidity 
changed  into  garments  worthy  of  the  occasion  and  were 
sitting  in  stately  silence  in  the  drawing-room  when  their 
caller  was  announced  by  Esther  Oughtenshaw. 

"Ah,  Miss  Effie — Miss  Flora — I  am  only  just  back, 
and  thought  I  could  do  not  better  this  fine  day  than  ride 
over  and  look  up  my  old  friends" 

Beautifully  attired  in  riding  clothes  of  exactly  the  right 
idegree  of  shabbiness,  healthy,  sunburnt,  white-teethed, 
jovial,  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways  came  into  the  old  room 
like  a  fine  high  wind.  The  ladies  shook  hands  with  their 
neighbor  and  established  him  in  a  chair  which  the  next 
minute  he  had  left,  going  to  stand  with  his  rather  short 
legs  far  apart,  his  huge  shoulders  completely  blocking 
out  the  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece. 

He  had  just  come  from  Deauville — whither  he  was  re- 
turning very  shortly — to  attend  to  some  business  about 
which  Dewhurst,  his  steward,  had  been  tormenting  the 
life  out  of  him  for  months.  Nothing  but  the  dust  of  the 
grave,  he  told  them,  could  ever  stop  Dewhurst's  mouth. 

He  had  heard  that  Bob  Blundell  was  staying  at  Rose- 
roofs,  so  he  thought  he  might  see  him  as  well — Bob  was 
an  old  friend  of  his. 

"Is  it  true  that  he  is  seedy,  Miss  Effie?" 

Miss  Effie  bowed  stiffly,  and  it  was  Miss  Flora  who 
gave  the  sad  details. 

67 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Sir  Peregrine  was  visibly  shocked.  "Dear  me,  dear 
me,"  he  kept  murmuring,  "poor  fellow!  dear  me — is  he 
really — upon  my  soul  I  never  knew  a  word  of  it  all! 
Dewhurst  told  me" 

Then  he  asked  about  the  health  of  the  ladies  and  told 
them  that  they  both  looked  delightful,  and  that  though 
he  did  not  often  come  to  Roseroofs,  he  never  forgot  the 
dear  old  house  and  the  happy  hours  he  had  passed  there 
in  his  youth.  .  .  . 

Presently  Miss  Effie  suggested  that  they  should  sojourn 
to  the  garden. 

"Garden?" 

"Robert  is  there,  under  a  tree," 

"Oh,  is  he,  that's  good — oh,  well,  if  he  is  in  the  garden 
he  cannot  be  so  ill  as  you  fear,  Miss  Effie.  Ladies  are 
always  so  easily  alarmed,"  he  said  with  his  odd  little 
regency  air  that  fitted  so  well  with  his  grizzled  hair  and  his 
unconscious,  graceful  bows.  "Ladies  are  always  nervous."1 

But  when  he  had  followed  her  through  the  window 
and  down  the  path  to  where  the  chairs  stood,  his  musical, 
cheerful  voice  faltered.  Miss  Flora,  who  had  gone  to 
the  blue-room  where  Cuckoo  slept,  over  the  dining-room, 
and  who  stood  at  the  window,  saw  the  swift  change  that 
came  over  his  face  as  he  took  off  his  hat  to  the  Vicar 
and  approached  the  two  men. 

Miss  Flora  watched  the  little  scene  for  a  moment  and 
then  withdrew  from  the  window. 

After  a  while  Esther  Oughtenshaw  knocked  at  the  door 
and  on  being  told  to  come  in,  did  so. 

"Miss  Flossie,  dear,"  she  said,  straightening  a  picture 
on  the  wall,  "they  want  you." 

"They  want  me?" 

Miss  Flora,  who  was  busily  soaping  her  hands,  plunged 
them  into  the  water  and  then  shook  the  wet  from  them, 
before  reaching  for  a  towel. 

68 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Aye,  Miss  Effie  sent  me.  Sir  Peregrine  is  going  to 
stay  for  dinner." 

Miss  Flora  laughed.  "Ah,  that  will  be  delightful, 
Esther — such  a  very  old  friend  as  Sir  Peregrine — but 
why  did  you  call  me  Miss  Flossie?" 

Esther  Oughtenshaw  turned  to  the  door.  "Aw  doant 
kna-aw,  Miss  Flora,"  she  answered,  "it  just  ca-ame  to 
me;  perhaps  it  was  seeing  Sir  Peregrine  again.  In  fold 
days,  when  he  used  to  come,  the  mistress  was  still  here, 
calling  you  Flossie," 

Miss  Flora  laughed  softly.  "Yes,  she  always  did,  dear 
mother.  She  liked  Sir  Peregrine  too.  Do  you  remember 
the  books  he  used  to  bring  Effie  to  read,  French 
books?" 

"Oh,  aye,  ah  mind,  but  coom  along  down,  Miss  Flora," 
the  old  servant  reminded  her.  "They're  waiting  an5 
all," 

It  was  only  half-past  six,  and  for  a  long  time  the 
little  party  sat  under  the  big  tree.  The  wind  had  changed, 
and  the  sun  was  going  soberly  down  the  sky,  like  an  old 
lady  wrapping  herself  in  a  soft,  gray,  Shetland  shawl. 
The  talk,  animated  at  first,  grew  quieter  little  by 
little. 

And  presentfy  the  Vicar  made  his  adieux,  and  then 
Miss  Effie,  bound  to  her  duty  by  her  knowledge  of  French, 
rose  without  a  word  and  went  to  retrieve  the  sure-to-be- 
errant  Cuckoo  and  put  her  to  bed.  The  remaining  three 
sat  in  silence  for  a  while,  Peregrine  Janeways'  splendid 
dark  eyes  full  of  pity  as  they  rested  on  the  invalid,  a 
new  look  of  discontent  and  something  like  fright  on 
Blundell's  face. 

It  was  clear  that  Blundell  was  thinking  that  it  was 
one  thing  to  die  in  the  presence  of  two  pathetic,  kind, 
old  women,  who  would  before  long  themselves  be  doing 
the  same  thing,  but  quite  another  to  be  dying  under 

69 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

the  pitying  gaze  of  Peregrine  Janeways,  a  man  some 
five  or  six  years  older  than  himself,  but  still  in  all  the 
splendor  of  his  health  and  the  full  enjoyment  of  every 
moment  of  his  life. 

"Rotten  luck,  isn't  it?"  he  broke  out  irrepressibly  once, 
as  their  eyes  met,  and  Janeways  made  no  pretense  of  not 
understanding. 

"Damnable!"  he  answered  tersely,  forgetting  Miss 
Flora,  who  had  drawn  her,  chair  a  little  to  one  side  and 
who  was  gazing  at  the  place  where  the  sunset  was  going 
on  in  magnificent  privacy. 

"I — can't  you — no  doubt  you  have  tried  everything, 
seen  everybody?" 

Blundell  nodded  fiercely.  "My  dear  fellow,  I  have  prac- 
tically no  lung  left  at  all.  They  sent  me  back  here  from 
Switzerland,  and  you  know  what  that  means." 

Janeways  bit  his  lip :  "I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am." 

There  was  no  answer  to  this,  and  a  moment's  silence 
fell,  broken  by  the  older  man's  bursting  out,  "But  tell 
me,  Bob,  my  dear  fellow,  how  did  you  ever  happen  to  come 
here?  Dewhurst — my  agent,  you  know — told  me,  but  I 
could  hardly  believe  it  was  you.  What  have  you  to  do 
with  this  part  of  the  world?" 

Blundell  forced  his  pale  lips  to  smile,  but  it  was  Miss 
Flora,  guiltily  conscious  of  her  own  social  defects,  who 
said,  bursting  into  the  conversation  and  turning  her  little 
back  to  the  west  with  great  resolution: 

"Of  course  dear  Robert  came  here,  Peregrine!  You 
see,  his  wife  was  our  sister." 

Janeways'  dark  face,  full  of  surprise,  gazed  at  her. 

"His  wife !  I  never  knew  you  were  married,  Blundell !" 
— and  then  at  the  look  in  Miss  Flora's  eyes,  he  wished 
with  fervor  that  he  had  never  been  born.  "I  knew,  of 
course,  that  May  had  married,  but  I  never  dreamt  that 
you  were  her  husband!" 

70 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Blundell  broke  into  a  hoarse  laugh  of  sheer  amuse- 
ment. 

"No,  I  daresay  you  didn't.  We  went  to  Italy  first 
and  then,  in  Paris — my  wife  was  very  quiet  and  did  not 
like  going  out ;  besides,"  he  murmured  maliciously,  "I  was 
not  likely  to  introduce  you  to  my  domestic  circle,  you  old 
reprobate!  The  wonder  is  that  any  man  ever  tells  you 
he  is  married," 

Miss  Flora  rose,  her  delicate  face  of  that  white  whicH 
in  some  people  shows  extreme  agitation.  "Robert!"  she 
cried,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

Janeways  had  risen  too,  and  he  too  was  white,  as  if 
the  pallor  of  poor  Miss  Flora's  face  were  reflected  in  his. 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Blundell,"  he  said  shortly,  adding 
in  an  amusingly  different  voice,  "He  is  trying  to  frighten 
you,  Flora." 

But  she  had  seen  that  he  was  angry,  and  his  anger 
quieted  and  soothed  hers. 

"He  is  a  great  tease,"  she  said  with  a  flutter  in  her 
voice,  "but  I  understand  him.  Yes,  he  married  our  dear 
sister  May.  She  was  much  younger,"  she  added  with 
dignity,  "than  Effie  and  me ;  she  died  four  years  ago ;  so — 
of  course — Robert  came  to  us.  We  are  greatly  enjoying 
his  visit."  And  after  this  masterpiece  of  social  diplomacy 
she  glided  away  in  her  most  Miss  Flora-like  manner,  into 
the  house. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  and  presently  Jane- 
ways  spoke. 

"You  are  a  swine,  Blundell,"  he  said,  "to  hurt  her — 
I  am  a  villain  if  you  like — but  I  would  die  rather  than  hurt 
that  poor  soul.  You  are  a  brute !" 

Blundell  coughed.  "I  am  sorry,  truly  sorry,  Pelly — 
she  is  a  little  old  faded  angel,  like  a  little  old  faded  fresco, 
and — I  am  sorry."  Then  he  added  maliciously,  closing 
his  eyes,  "How's  Mrs.  Browning?" 

71 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

The  other  man's  dark  face  did  not  change.  "Very 
well,  thanks,"  he  said. 

Then  Esther  Oughtenshaw  rang  the  gong — the  gong 
had  came  from  Burmah  a  hundred  years  ago — and  he 
was  obliged  to  help  Blundell  out  of  his  chair  and  give  him 
his  arm  to  the  house. 

Blundell  leaned  on  him  heavily,  but  said  with  the  blank 
lack  of  gratitude  that  sometimes  characterized  him,  "Your 
sympathy  with  Flora  is  so  striking,  it  occurs  to  me  that 
Mrs.  Browning's  mother  and  sisters  possibly  do  not  come 
under  the  category  of  'poor  souls  ?' } 

He  was  a  little  taller  than  Janeways,  but  he  was  so 
obviously  dying,  his  every  weakness  was  so  apparent, 
that  Janeways  looked  far  the  bigger  as  well  as,  in  spite 
of  his  gray  hair,  the  younger  man,  and  it  struck  Jane- 
ways  himself,  angry  though  he  was,  that  the  fellow  un- 
doubtedly had  courage  to  dare  to  speak  to  him  in  this 
way. 

"I  wish  you  were  well,  Bob,"  he  said,  almost  lifting 
the  sick  man  up  the  step  into  the  drawing-room.  "If 
you  were,  I  should  pretty  nearly  have  killed  you  for 
that." 

"Yes,  you  would — it  would  be  just  like  you.  'Is  it 
possible  he  can  know  what  he  is,'  "  Blundell  quoted  softly, 
"  'and  yet  be  what  he  is?'  Just  raise  your  arm  a  little," 
he  added,  in  an  undisturbed  voice,  "and  then  I  can  lean 
on  you  better." 

Two  hours  later,  as  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways  left  Rose- 
roofs,  he  stumbled,  on  issuing  from  the  gate  on  to  the 
green  where  Esther  Oughtenshaw  had  tethered  his  horse, 
over  a  bundle  lying  on  the  grass. 

Miss  Effie,  who,  in  default  of  a  host,  had  accompanied 
her  guest  thus  far  on  his  way,  gave  a  little  scream. 

"Cuckoo !"  she  cried  sharply,  "you  naughty  child,  what 
are  you  doing  there  in  your  nightgown?" 

72 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  had  come,  it  appeared,  to  see  the  horse ;  Esther 
had  told  her  about  the  horse,  and  of  course  she  was  in 
her  nightgown,  considering  that  she  had  come  straight 
from  her  bed. 

The  child's  logical  explanation  of  her  appearance 
amused  and  pleased  Janeways.  He  set  her  on  his  horse 
and  led  the  animal  up  and  down  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Like  it?"  he  asked  as  he  at  last  put  her  back  into 
Miss  Effie's  arms. 

She  nodded,  "Aye." 

After  a  moment  she  added  in  French,  "Will  you  give 
it  to  me?  I  want  it." 

"For  shame,  Cuckoo!" 

Poor  Miss  Effie  was  really  distressed,  but  Janeways 
explained  to  the  child  that  while  he  could  not  give  her 
Black-eyed  Susan,  as  he  needed  that  lady  as  a  means  to 
get  him  home,  yet  he  might  one  day,  if  she  was  a  good 
girl,  give  her  a  pony. 

"Parole  d'lionneur?"  she  asked. 

"Parole  d'honneur." 

He  said  good-bye  to  Miss  Effie,  shook  hands  quite  as 
gravely  with  the  child,  and  rode  off. 

At  the  corner  of  the  wall  where  the  road  turried  down 
towards  the  dale,  he  pulled  up  and  called  out  in  French, 
"By  the  way,  my  little  cabbage,  what's  your  name?"  and 
shrilly  came  back  the  answer: 

"Cuckoo  B'undell!" 

As  Black-eyed  Susan,  with  the  delicacy  of  Agag,  felt 
her  way  down  the  dark  road,  Janeways  spoke  aloud  to 
himself. 

"So  that's  it,"  he  said,  adding  with  a  little  chuckle, 
"Well,  I'm  damned!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

WIDDYBANK  village  and  the  church  lay  about 
three  miles  up  dale  from  Warcop.  The 
church  was  a  small  one,  very  ancient,  with  in- 
controvertible signs  of  having  been  built  while  men  who 
had  seen  the  Conqueror  were  still  living,  although  the 
greater  part  of  it  had  been  reconstructed  towards  the 
end  of  the  thirteenth  century.  The  font  bore  the  date  of 
1592,  and  on  the  old  gravestones  in -the  nave  were  dates 
as  far  back  as  1390.  The  churchyard,  too,  was  so  closely 
packed  with  what  Cuckoo,  aged  ten,  once  called  "eternal 
resters,"  that  fifty  years  before  her  birth  the  so-called 
new  churchyard  had  to  be  enclosed  and  consecrated,  and 
was  now  the  one  in  general  use. 

It  was,  however,  in  the  old  churchyard  that  the  Rev- 
erend Arthur  Rose  Loxley  stood  one  day  in  March, 
nearly  three  years  after  the  arrival  at  Roseroofs  of 
Robert  Blundell  and  his  daughter,  reading  the  service 
for  the  burial  of  the  dead  over  the  man  whose  friend  he 
so  unexpectedly  had  become. 

Blundell,  after  a  series  of  ups  and  downs,  some  of  the 
ups  so  vigorous  as  to  seem  almost  miraculous,  some  of 
the  downs  so  deep  as  to  have  made  everyone  who  saw 
them  convinced  that  there  could  be  no  subsequent  mount, 
had  finally  died  very  suddenly  three  days  before. 

The  Vicar  had  been  at  Roseroofs  in  the  afternoon  and 
in  the  evening  George  had  come  home  white-lipped,  to 
tell  his  grandfather  that  Mr.  Blundell  was  dead,  and  the 

74 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

two  had  climbed  the  path  together,  hand  in  hand,  to  see 
the  ladies. 

Miss  Effie  they  had  found  very  calm,  though  worn  and 
weary,  but  Miss  Flora's  nerves  had  given  way  and  she  was 
crying  bitterly. 

When  she  could  do  so  without  being  conspicuous,  Miss 
Effie  drew  the  old  Vicar  into  the  study,  a  room  that  the 
coming  of  his  first  winter  there  had  naturally  dedicated  to 
poor  Blundell,  and  here  among  the  dead  man's  personal 
belongings — his  silver  cigarette-box,  his  case  full  of  books, 
his  photographs,  his  walking-sticks  and  his  long-unused 
pipes — Miss  Effie  button-holed  her  friend,  who  was  mourn- 
ing what  he  called  Miss  Flora's  lack  of  self-control,  and 
told  him  a  little  ancient  history. 

"You  mustn't  blame  Flora,"  Miss  Effie  said  fiercely,  her 
hot,  dry  eyes  gazing  at  him  in  the  gloom,  "she  can't  help 
it." 

"I  know  that,  my  dear  Effie,  but  she  will  make  herself 
ill  with  crying.  Her  hands  are  like  ice  and  she  is  weak 
with  tears." 

"Let  her  be,"  declared  Miss  Effie  with  an  odd  break 
in  her  voice  and  almost,  the  old  man  thought,  with  sacra- 
mental solemnity.  "Vicar,  you  are  older  than  we.  You 
could  have  christened  us  if  you  had  been  here  ten  years 
sooner,  you  knew  our  father  and  mother " 

A  dry  sobbing  broke  the  flow  of  her  words,  and  the 
kind  old  man  took  her  hot  hands  and  held  them 
gently. 

"Of  course,  my  dear,  I  am  the  oldest  and  I  hope  the 
closest  friend  you  have  in  the  world.  Tell  me  what  it  is 
that  is  so  troubling  you." 

Of  all  the  habits  on  earth,  the  habit  of  inborn,  culti- 
vated, Northern  reserve  is  the  hardest  to  break,  and  the 
Vicar  knew  how  Miss  Effie's  struggle  was  hurting  her. 

"Tell  me,  my  dear,  tell  me,"  he  kept  repeating,  as  they 

75 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

stood  by  the  window  in  the  dim  evening  light  of  the  raw 
Spring  day. 

And  finally,  while  the  sound  of  Miss  Flora's  unre- 
strained grief  reached  them  for  a  moment  as  someone, 
probably  Esther  Oughtenshaw,  opened  the  drawing-room 
door,  Miss  Erne  spoke. 

"The  trouble  was,"  she  said,  her  strong  bony  hands 
hurting  the  Vicar's  soft,  fat  ones  as  she  squeezed  them, 
"that  although  poor  Robert  married  May — poor  May — 
Flora  always  cared  for  him,  and  now  she  is,  of  course, 
heart-broken." 

The  Vicar  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  and  said 

80. 

"Are  you  sure,  my  dear?"  he  asked,  and  Miss  Effie 
answered  that  she  was  sure. 

"I  have  always  known,  Vicar,  though  she  thinks  I  do 
not,  and  though  she  cries  so  dreadfully  now,  she  won't 
allow  me  to  say  a  word  to  her ;  oh,  if  you  could  have  seen 
her  last  night — he  was  dying  all  last  night.  Oh,  Dr.  Lox- 
ley !  why,"  the  tortured  woman  cried,  breaking  off,  "must 
it  take  people  so  long  to  die?  First  Father — a  fortnight 
of  death  agony  he  had — then  Mother ;  you  remember  how 
she  used  to  sit  up  in  bed  and  try  to  breathe,  and  tried  to 
make  us  think  that  it  didn't  hurt  ?  and  now  poor  Bob ! 
It  was  frightful — he  was  whiter  than  the  pillows — all  but 
his  poor,  damp  hair;  and  his  hands — his  hands  were  wet 
all  night.  He  kept  drying  them  on  the  sheet,  but  they 
were  always  wet.  And  Flora,  poor,  poor  Flora — she  kept 
going  out  of  the  room;  over  and  over  again  she  would 
creep  out — you  know  how  soft-footed  she  is — well,  she 
was  as  silent  as  a  ghost,  and  kept  going  out,  and  then 
I  would  find  her  crying  and  bring  her  back." 

"I  know,  I  know,  but  that,  dear  Effie  was  last  night," 
the  old  man  returned ;  "this,  by  God's  goodness,  is  another 
night;  a  new  one.  Look!" 

76 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Through  the  lustrous  dimness  of  the  dove-colored  sky 
came  a  pale,  flickering  light,  and  there,  hooked  as  it 
seemed  to  the  edge  of  a  cloud,  hung  the  little,  bright,  new 
moon. 

Miss  Effie  grasped  the  old  man's  lesson  in  silence,  and 
for  a  moment  they  stood  side  by  side,  looking  up. 

"And  why  have  you  told  me,"  he  said  presently,  "about 
our  poor  Flora?" 

Miss  Effie  drew  back.  "Because,"  she  answered,  in  a 
low,  strained  voice,  "I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer — I  can- 
not bear  seeing  her  cry  like  that,  and  I  thought  perhaps 
you  might  be  able  to  say  something,  something  to  com- 
fort her " 

"Shall  I  go  to  her  now?"  the  Vicar  asked  simply,  for 
they  both  belonged  to  an  age  when  death  or  sorrow  of  any 
kind  naturally  expected  comfort  from  a  clergyman. 

Miss  Effie  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  "try  to 
comfort  her;  but  oh,  Vicar,  never  tell  her  I  told  you." 

He  patted  her  poor,  hot  hands. 

"Of  course  not,  of  course  not,  Miss  Effie,  and  you  were 
right  to  tell  me,  for  my  knowing  may  help  me  to  console 
her,"  he  answered,  with  the  fine  simplicity  of  his  school. 

He  was  about  to  leave  the  room  when  she  called  him 
back. 

"Oh,  Vicar,  he  wants — wanted — Robert,  I  mean — to 
have  George  sing  at  his  grave." 

The  old  man  stared,  the  door  in  his  hand.  "Sing — at 
his  grave  ?  That's  a  very  odd  idea." 

"I  know,  but  you  know  how  he  has  loved  George's 
singing,  ever  since  that  first  Christmas  Eve — and  only 
yesterday  he  sent  for  him  to  sing  outside  his  door — (he 
would  not  let  him  come  in  lest  his  looks  might  alarm  the 
child)  and  George  sang,  'Hark,  hark,  my  soul' — oh,  Vicar ! 

it  was ,"  the  poor  lady's  composure  gave  way  and 

she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

77 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

When  she  looked  up  she  was  alone  in  the  room;  the 
Vicar  was  gone.  He  could  face  Miss  Flora's  tears  but 
not  Miss  Effie's.  He  stayed  an  hour  with  Miss  Flora  in 
the  pale  drawing-room  where  the  snowdrops  still  drooped 
that  he  himself  had  brought  Blundell  only  two  days  be- 
fore. They  were  faded  now,  but  no  one  had  remembered  to 
throw  them  away.  Miss  Flora  no  longer  cried;  she  was 
tired  out,  and  presently  she  tried  to  eat  a  little  supper, 
brought  to  her  by  Esther  Oughtenshaw. 

To  the  Vicar's  sorrow  and  mild  resentment  his  kind 
platitudes  on  the  subjects  of  death  and  resurrection  were 
met  with  polite  lack  of  enthusiasm  by  the  poor  lady  hang- 
ing limply  over  the  tray. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you — very  kind,"  she  kept  saying, 
but  that  was  all,  and  he  resumed :  "It  is,  after  all,  sad  as 
it  is,  only  to  be  expected  for  a  man  with  so  little  lung 
left " 

To  his  dismay  Miss  Flora  gave  a  little,  high  laugh  at 
this. 

"I  know — of  course  we  all  knew,"  she  answered,  "but 
— oh,  well,  Vicar,  I  cannot  explain,  but  I  had  a  very  spe- 
cial reason  for  crying  in  that  horrible  way.  It  wasn't 
only  that  I  couldn't  help  it ;  I  had  a  real  reason " 

"Perhaps  I  know  your  reason,  my  dear  Flora,"  he  be- 
gan, but  stopped  at  the  look  in  her  face.  There  was  there 
horror,  and  shame,  and  a  kind  of  fear. 

"No,  oh,  no,"  she  cried,  setting  her  tea  cup  down  with 
a  little  crash  that  sent  part  of  its  contents  slopping  into 
the  saucer,  "you  cannot  know — no  one  knows,"  she  added, 
sitting  bolt  upright  and  speaking  with  an  earnest  fierceness 
that  almost  alarmed  the  old  man.  "No  one  shall  know." 

And  then  quite  suddenly,  with  a  complete  change  of 
tone,  as  if  she  regretted  her  vehemence  and  wished  to 
destroy  his  memory  of  it,  she  asked  him  quietly  if  George 
might  sing  at  Blundell's  burial. 

78 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"I  don't — don't  know,"  he  replied  slowly;  "it  is  a 
thing  I  have  never  seen  done,  and  it  will  look  very  odd. 
Besides,  the  boy  is  so  delicate,  so  nervous,  I  prefer  to 
avoid  exciting  things  for  him " 

But  Miss  Flora  to  his  surprise  insisted;  gently  yet 
authoritatively  she  insisted,  and  finally  he  gave  in,  on  the 
condition  that  the  boy  himself  was  not  afraid  of  doing 
it. 

"I  will  ask  him,"  he  suggested,  rising,  but  it  was  Miss 
Flora  who  went  into  the  garden  and  found  George  sit- 
ting on  the  low  wall  watching  the  moon,  and  asked 
him. 

Miss  Effie,  from  her  room,  which  was  over  the  study, 
watched  them  talking,  and  the  Vicar  saw  them  from  the 
drawing-room;  little  George's  pointed  chin  and  long 
nose  outlined  against  the  growing  light  of  the  moon,  Miss 
Flora,  her  damp  handkerchief  still  being  dabbed  occa- 
sionally to  her  eyes,  standing  by  him.  At  last  Miss 
Flora  stooped  in  her  irresolute,  fluttering  way,  and  kiss- 
ing George's  cheek  hastily,  walked  back  to  the  house,  while 
the  twelve-year-old  boy,  apparently  neither  insulted  nor 
embarrassed  by  the  kiss,  again  clasped  his  thin  knees  with 
his  arms  and  went  on  looking  at  the  sky. 

And  now  the  last  words  of  the  service  were  said.  The 
Vicar  wiped  his  eyes,  and  the  small  group  of  people  round 
the  open  grave  drew  back  a  little  and  waited.  There  was 
Esther  Oughtenshaw,  holding  the  eight-year-old  Cuckoo 
— a  crow-hued  Cuckoo  it  was — by  the  hand,  old  Benjie 
Brigworthy  in  his  best  clothes,  Dr.  Hawes,  Henry  Pike, 
the  sexton,  and  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways,  who  had  come 
quite  unexpectedly,  having  just  heard  of  the  death,  and 
stopped  over  a  train  in  order  to  pay  this  last  compliment 
to  his  old  crony. 

The  Vicar  watched  the  heavily-built  figure  as  it  stood 

79 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

back  in  the  shade  of  the  church  and  was  gratified,  in  an 
impersonal  way,  for  Roseroofs. 

Presently  Janeways,  after  a  little  pause,  crossed  the 
spongy  grass  and  came  to  the  grave. 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  the  ladies  that  I  came,"  he  said, 
in  the  undertone  proper  to  the  presence  of  those  whom  no 
noise  can  disturb,  "and  give  them  my  kindest  re- 
gards? I  must  be  off  or  I  shall  miss  my  train  at  Mid- 
dleton." 

And  he  did  miss  his  train  at  Middleton  for,  as  he  spoke, 
little  George  Loxley,  in  his  ill-fitting  surplice,  opened  his 
mouth  and  began  to  sing. 

It  was  poor  Blundell's  best-loved  hymn,  "Hark,  hark, 
my  soul,"  and  after  a  start  that  amazed  himself,  Jane- 
ways  stood  listening,  as  motionless  as  if  his  tan-colored 
raincoat  had  been  cut  out  of  stone  and  he  himself  one  of 
the  long-dead  Herberts  of  Wiske  in  the  old  church.  Never 
as  long  as  he  lived  was  he  to  forget  the  scene. 

His  nerves  were  more  keenly  edged  than  usual,  that 
day,  for  his  appearance  there  in  the  consecrated  place 
was,  as  he  put  it  to  himself,  sandwiched  between  two  very 
different  engagements.  He  was  in  his  usual  position  of 
being  not  quite  off  with  an  old  love  before  he  was  satis- 
factorily on  with  a  new,  and  the  past  morning  had  held 
for  him  an  unpleasantly  painful  interview,  while  the 
coming  evening  was,  he  knew,  to  hold  for  him  an  inter- 
view as  poignant,  as  dramatic,  though  far  less  unpleas- 
ant. 

Also,  in  spite  of  the  life  he  lived,  the  man  had  a  sense  of 
the  beautiful  that  was  a  little  too  keen  for  him  to  have 
heard,  in  this  quiet  place,  the  words  of  the  burial  service 
with  a  perfectly  easy  conscience. 

"Poor  old  Bob,"  he  had  told  himself,  and  with  perfect 
truth,  while  the  Vicar  read  the  beautiful  words,  "would 
not  have  minded.  He  was  just  as  bad — oh,  yes,  quite  as 

SO 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

bad  as  I  am."  And  yet  he  himself  had  minded.  He  had 
almost  wished  he  had  not  come. 

And  now,  as  if  rooted  to  the  wet  grass  by  the  sound  of 
the  boy's  voice,  poor  Pelly  Janeways  minded  more  and 
more  every  minute.  Exactly  in  front  of  him  in  the  shade 
of  the  ancient,  ivy-covered  church  stood  little  George 
Loxley,  his  mouse-colored  head  thrown  back,  his  red  mouth 
as  wide  open  as  if  he  had  been  a  hungry  young  bird,  his 
pointed  chin  quivering  as  he  sang. 

To  the  left  stood  the  little  group  of  mourners,  and  off 
Janeways'  right,  outside  the  double  row  of  fine  ash-trees 
that  grew  round  the  churchyard,  was  the  Vicarage,  its  lit- 
tle windows  hung  with  freshly-washed  muslin  curtains. 
The  Vicarage  stood  a  few  feet  higher  than  the  church,  so 
that  the  drawing-room  windows  were  visible  behind  the 
leafless  lilac  and  laburnums  in  the  garden,  and  at  the 
drawing-room  windows  he  saw  two  white  blurs  which  he 
knew  must  be  the  faces  of  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora. 

"Hark,  hark,  my  soul,  angelic  songs  are  swelling 
O'er  earth's  green  fields  and  ocean's  wave-beat  shore," 

sang  the  boy.  His  was  one  of  the  exquisite,  soul-shaking 
boy  sopranos  that  so  rarely  develop  into  good  men's 
voices.  It  had  a  quality  that  cannot  possibly  be  described 
but  that  fortunately  most  people  know,  the  quality  called 
bird-like,  though  no  bird's  voice  ever  made  people  cry, 
whereas  this  particular  boy's  voice  draws  tears  as  inno- 
cently and  inevitably  as  sunshine  draws  scent  from  roses. 
Possibly,  too,  George  Loxley's  physical  delicacy  lent 
an  added  element  of  pathos  to  his  voice,  for  he  was  twelve, 
and  at  twelve  most  boys'  voices  have  lost  what  for  want 
of  a  better  name  one  calls  the  angelic  quality.  He  was  a 
simple,  fragile  child,  no  more  nervous  at  doing  this  un- 
usual thing  than  if  he  had  been  six  and,  as  he  sang,  un- 

81 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

accompanied,  his  voice  grew  in  sweetness  and  poignancy 
until  he  was  almost  unbearable.  He  had  pitched  it 
a  tone  too  high  as  well,  and  at  the  last,  when  he  reached 
the  words,  "Singing  to  welcome,"  the  little  quiver  by  which 
he  reached  by  innocent  straining  the  high  note  was  like  a 
knife  in  the  heart  of  at  least  one  of  his  hearers.  Janeways, 
always  a  shamelessly  emotional  man,  wiped  his  eyes 
without  reserve,  and  glancing  at  the  Vicarage  saw  that 
two  windows  were  now  open  and  that  a  lady  sat  in  each. 
One  of  the  sisters  had  gone  upstairs,  either  the  better  to 
see  or  to  be  alone. 

As  the  last  note  of  the  hymn  died  away,  Janeways 
turned  to  the  Vicar.  "I  never,"  he  said  simply,  "heard 
anything  like  that." 

The  old  man  nodded.  "Yes,  I  cannot  bear  it  some- 
times myself.  Will  you  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  me 
before  you  go?  The  ladies  are  there " 

Everyone  had  gone  now,  except  old  Pike  and  Esther 
Oughtenshaw  and  the  child,  who  were  walking  slowly  to- 
wards the  Vicarage. 

Janeways  shook  his  head.  "No,  thanks,  I  have  missed 
my  train  and  shall  have  to  get  on  the  best  way  I  can  to 
York.  I  have — an  engagement " 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  Janeways  had  gone 
half-way  down  the  damp,  flagged  path  to  the  front  of  the 
church  where  his  horse  stood,  when  something  small  and 
black  attacked  him  flank-wise  and  Cuckoo  looked  up  at  him 
in  triumph. 

"It  is,  Esther,"  she  cried.  "It  is,  aren't  you?"  she  in- 
sisted, clutching  his  hand. 

"That  depends  on  what  you  said  I  was." 

"Oh,  sir,  please  excuse  her,"  Esther  Oughtenshaw  broke 
in.  "It  is  only  some  nonsense  about  a  horse.  I  told  her 
it  was  unseemly  talk  in  a  churchyard,  but  there's  nowt 
to  be  done  with  her." 

82 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  did  not  seem  to  have  grown  much  in  the  three 
years  since  he  had  seen  her — he  had  been  out  of  England 
most  of  the  time — but  she  was  strikingly  like  her  father, 
with  the  jut  of  her  little  jaw  and  the  curve  of  her  little 
nose. 

"Come  along,  Cuckoo,"  the  old  servant  urged,  dragging 
at  her  charge's  arm.  Cuckoo  turned  on  her  fiercely. 

"Go  away,  Esther  Oughtenshaw,  this  is  my  father's 
friend;  aren't  you?"  she  added,  taking  Janeways'  hand. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  was,"  he  agreed,  although  he  had 
in  truth  never  regarded  poor  Blundell  as  more  than  an 
excellent  occasional  boon  companion,  "but  you  must  go 
to  your  aunts  now." 

He  was  puzzled  and  a  little  shocked  at  the  child's  man- 
ner, and  he  wondered  vaguely  at  what  age  children  do 
begin  to  realize  death,  or  to  mourn  their  parents.  Per- 
haps something  of  this  showed  in  his  face,  for  Esther  said 
hurriedly,  "She's  tired  out,  poor  bairn — she  has  cried  out 
all  her  tears " 

But  however  that  might  be,  Cuckoo  had  no  tears  now 
and  no  intention  of  pretending.  Her  curious  little  sloe- 
like  eyes  gazed  earnestly,  avidly,  up  at  the  man  her  father 
had  known,  and  with  a  gesture  of  amusing  hauteur  to  the 
old  servant,  she  said  to  Janeways: 

"Where's  the  pony?" 

It  is  odd  that  he  should  have  been  horrified  at  this 
question,  but  he  was,  and  his  rebuke  was  so  serious  that 
a  moment  later  he  had  given  her  a  sovereign  to  console  her 
for  what  he  had  said. 

She  took  the  sovereign  but  added,  "You  said  you  would, 
you  know  you  did." 

"Yes,  yes,  and  so  I  will  some  day,  if  you  are  a  good 

girl.  Now,  good-bye "  He  stooped  to  kiss  her,  but 

the  little  creature  drew  back. 

"When  you  have  kept  your  word,"  she  returned,  and  he 

83 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

knew  that  she  was  repeating  a  phrase  of  her  Aunt  Effie's, 
"I  will  kiss  you,"  and  he  went  his  way,  leaving  her  in  the 
churchyard,  firm  in  her  integrity  of  purpose. 

And  for  the  second  time  on  leaving  her,  Janeways  said, 
"Well,  I'm  damned!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

GEORGE  LOXLEY  was,  after  all,  educated  at 
home.  His  delicacy,  though  not  of  the  kind  from 
which  any  particular  disease  is  expected  to  de- 
velop, was  yet  great  enough  to  induce  the  school  doctor  in 
the  south  to  advise  his  grandfather  to  remove  him  from 
school  and  keep  him  at  home,  where  he  could  have  not 
only  his  fine  native  air,  but  the  greatest  individual  care 
— care  such  as  can  be  given  a  child  only  by  his  own 
people. 

The  old  man  and  his  still  older  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Bridlegoose,  were  wise  in  their  unremitting  oversight ;  and 
the  little  wisp  of  a  boy  who  had  looked  so  very  small  and 
so  very  light  on  his  return  was  hardly  to  be  recognized 
after  two  or  three  months  at  the  Vicarage,  in  the  more 
solid,  comparatively  rosy  child  he  had  become. 

Educationally,  the  Vicar  was  less  of  a  success.  His  in- 
tentions were  of  course  of  the  best,  and  at  first  he  devoted 
several  hours  a  day  to  instructing  his  grandson  but,  as 
things  turned  out,  it  was  just  as  well  that  the  boy's  four 
years  under  the  wise  guidance  of  Mr.  Porter,  as  well  as 
his  own  natural  love  of  study,  had  in  an  unusual  degree 
prepared  him  for  self-education. 

The  Vicar  was  a  hopeless,  ever-sighing  book-lover;  his 
easy  duties  in  a  small,  healthful,  rural  parish  had  for 
many  years  allowed  him  to  gratify  his  passion,  with  the 
result  that  it  was  now  beyond  his  powers  to  turn  his 
mind  effectually  to  teaching  his  grandson  the  things  it 
seemed  to  him  the  boy  must  already  know. 

"Latin,"  he  assured  George  gravely,  "is  extremely  easy. 

85 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  read  it,  and  you  know  where  all 
my  books  are.  Help  yourself," — with  the  unexpected  re- 
sult that  George  at  fifteen  presented  him  with  a  little 
blank  book  filled  with  excellent  but  hair-raising  transla- 
tions from  Catullus. 

"Wh-where  did  you  get  that  book,  sir?"  the  old  man 
stammered  in  all  innocence. 

George  surveyed  him  mildly  with  his  big,  short-sighted 
gray  eyes.  "In  the  corner  of  the  window — next  the  Hor- 
ace, sir,"  he  answered. 

The  poor  Vicar  had  forgotten  the  book  and  spent  a 
penitential  day  in  going  through  his  library  and  the  din- 
ing-room (in  which  for  lack  of  room  they  no  longer  took 
their  meals)  to  weed  out  the  books  which  were  unsuitable 
to  a  boy  of  fifteen. 

Alas!  this  mission  of  pious  elimination  was  never 
accomplished,  for  the  Vicar  was  one  of  those  people  who 
cannot  look  at  books  without  looking  into  them,  and  when 
tea-time  came  it  found  a  dusty,  beatific  old  man  crouch- 
ing in  a  book-filled  armchair,  deep  in  a  fine  old  copy  of 
Castiglione's  "Courtier,"  while  the  shabby  carpet  round 
him  seethed  an  inchoate  sea  of  volumes  which,  he  explained 
vaguely,  he  was  going  to  look  at  next. 

It  was  George  who  had  come  in  and  George  stood,  his 
hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  shabby  jacket,  smiling  whim- 
sically at  the  scene. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to  them,  Gran'pa?"  he 
asked.  Dr.  Loxley  closed  his  book,  rose,  and  blew  his 
nose,  which  he  always  did  in  moments  of  embarrassment. 

"Well,"  he  answered  diplomatically,  "they  really  ought 
to  be  arranged — according  to  subject,  you  know,  and — 
somehow,  I  never  have  had  time  to  do  it,  and  it  being 
such  a  very  wet  day,  I  thought " 

In  the  library,  by  the  pleasant  fire,  the  two  sat  down 
to  their  tea  and  while  George,  in  accordance  with  a  habit 

86 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

dear  to  them  both,  toasted  the  tea-cake  on  an  ancient, 
three-pronged  toasting-fork,  the  subject  was  resumed. 

"I  suppose,"  the  boy  began,  "that  you  think  I  ought 
not  to  read  all  the  books.  Is  that  it  ?" 

The  Vicar  nodded,  his  ruddy,  round  face  grave. 
"Yes." 

"Porter  never  let  us  get  at  the  poets  much — that's 
why  I  made  for  Catullus  when  I  found  him  the  other 
day." 

"Some  of  him  is  beautiful  and  delightful,"  said  the 
Vicar  " — this  j  am  is  excellent,  my  boy — and  some  of  him 
—isn't." 

"That's  what  Porter  said.  So  I  thought  I'd  just  try. 
Are  my  translations  good,  Gran'pa  ?" 

The  Vicar  was  a  truthful  man  by  the  grace  of  God. 
He  spoke  the  truth  as  naturally  as  he  breathed.  So  he 
nodded,  his  bright  old  eyes  the  brighter  for  his  scholarly 
appreciation  of  his  grandson's  work. 

"Yes,  George,  excellent.  But — there  are  other  things 
to  translate.  Why  not  try  your  hand  at  Horace?" 

George,  it  appeared,  had  tried  his  hand  at  some  of  the 
Odes.  Also,  he  had  put  one  or  two  of  Bacon's  Essays 
into  Latin.  In  this  last  feat  the  boy  had  been  less  suc- 
cessful, but,  in  the  production  and  criticism  of  his  work, 
the  original  reason  for  the  Vicar's  going  through  his 
library  was  lost  sight  of  and  the  two  passed  a  delightful, 
bookish  afternoon,  with  no  further  thought  of  arranging 
the  volumes. 

Late  that  night  Dr.  Loxley  woke  suddenly,  and  sitting 
up  in  bed  in  the  darkness,  he  remembered. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me,"  he  whispered.  "I  must  do  it. 
He  is  only  fifteen  and  he  must  not  read  all  those 
books " 

It  was  October,  and  very  stormy.  Rain  pelted  against 
the  windows,  and  the  great  trees  in  Widdybank  Bottom 

87 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

were  holding  high  revel  with  the  wind,  while  against  the 
side  of  the  house  the  bough  of  a  great  cedar  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  saw  itself  in  two,  as  it  ground  against  the  roof. 

In  his  old  four-poster  the  Vicar  sat  for  a  while,  listen- 
ing to  the  glorious  uproar,  then,  lighting  a  candle  with  a 
glass  shade  to  it,  he  rose,  his  old-fashioned  nightshirt 
flapping  round  his  fat  legs  as  he  passed  the  open  window, 
and  put  on  his  dressing-gown.  It  was  very  cold  and  it 
had  been  luxuriously,  almost  romantically,  pleasant  to  lie 
in  bed  and  listen  to  the  wind  and  rain.  He  paused  for 
a  moment  and  shivered.  Then  he  went  silently,  resolutely, 
down  the  little  winding  stairs,  feeling  his  way,  for  the 
stone  steps  were  worn  under  the  old  carpet,  and  their  nar- 
row side  was  perilously  narrow. 

As  the  old  man  reached  the  little  hall,  he  stood  still, 
listening  to  the  clock  strike  three. 

"I'll  work,"  he  thought,  "till  six.  I'll  put  all  the  ones 
he  mustn't  read  in  one  corner  and  tell  him.  He  will  keep 
his  word,  the  dear  boy — and  then  he  can  browse  as  he 
likes " 

"After  all,"  he  thought,  as  he  crept  quietly  towards 
the  library  door,  "I  don't  believe  the  Catullus  hurt  him. 
He's  just  too  young  for  that."  And  then  he  stood  sud- 
denly still,  for  there  was  a  light  on  the  carpet  under  the 
door.  Naturally,  the  old  gentleman  thought  it  must 
be  burglars,  and  creeping  back  to  his  room,  he  found  his 
old  revolver  in  a  drawer,  saw  that  it  was  loaded,  and  came 
silently  downstairs  again.  He  paused  outside  the  library 
door,  not  frightened,  filled  with  a  pleasant  spirit  of  ad- 
venture. He  had  no  intention  of  shooting  the  thief,  rather 
would  he  argue  with  him.  He  would  ask  him  whence  he 
came,  he  would  ask  if  he  was  hungry,  and  offer  him  food ; 
it  was  a  cold  night,  and  perhaps  the  poor  fellow  had  been 
tempted  in  by  the  fire  and  light.  Finally,  making  as  little 
noise  as  possible,  the  old  gentleman  opened  his  library 

88 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

door  and  there,  quite  naturally,  as  he  at  once  realized, 
he  found  George,  busily  engaged  in  putting  aside  the 
books  he  ought  not  yet  to  read. 

The  boy,  more  delicate-looking  than  ever  through  his 
fatigue  and  the  comparative  cold,  looked  up  nervously, 
and  then,  when  he  saw  the  revolver,  gave  a  soft  laugh. 

"Gran'pa,  how  you  frightened  me!  Did  you  think  I 
was  a  burglar?"  The  Vicar  laughed,  too. 

"I  did.  What  in  the  name  of  goodness  are  you  doing?" 
Suddenly  his  bonny  old  face  hardened  and  he  looked  with 
suspicion  at  a  book  in  the  boy's  hands. 

"Surely,  George "  he  began. 

George's  steady,  tired  young  eyes  returned  his  gaze 
for  a  moment,  and  then  comprehension  came  to  him. 

"Oh,  Gran'pa,"  he  burst  out,  his  pale  little  face  flush- 
ing, "how  could  you  think  that?  How  could  you?" 

He  pointed  to  the  green  baize-covered,  old  writing- 
table,  and  there  lay,  neatly  piled  together,  some  dozen 
books. 

"They  are  there,"  he  went  on  passionately,  adding 
the  book  he  held  to  the  collection.  "All  the  ones  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  want  me  to  read.  How  could  you 
think " 

The  Vicar  set  down  his  candle,  laid  the  revolver  by  it, 
and,  to  gain  time  for  his  grandson,  looked  at  the  books 
on  the  table. 

There  was  his  Boccaccio,  one  of  his  greatest  treasures, 
brought  to  England  after  Magliaveechi's  sale  in  Florence 
early  in  the  eighteenth  century  and  bought  by  the  Vicar's 
father  at  Hever's  sale  in  1834;  his  "Heptameron" ;  the 
fatal  Catullus;  his  Rabelais,  and  many  others. 

After  a  pause,  the  Vicar  went  to  where  the  boy  was 
standing  and  laid  his  arm  across  the  thin  young  shoulders. 
"George — I  beg  your  pardon.  Will  you  forgive  me?" 

George  turned,  his  long  lashes  wet,  his  lower  lip  pinned 

89 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Hy  his  teeth  but  not  quite  steady.  And  as  he  held  his 
hand,  the  old  man  kissed  him  and  was  forgiven.  Subse- 
quently, by  way  of  a  mild  celebration,  they  made  cocoa 
with  milk,  in  a  saucepan  over  the  library  fire,  and  ate 
biscuits  with  it. 

As  he  munched,  his  bare  feet  in  their  old  slippers  tucked 
up  on  the  fender,  his  dressing-gown  wrapped  tightly  round 
him,  George  explained. 

"I  knew  you'd  never  get — I  mean  to  say,  have  time 
to  sort  them — the  books,"  he  said,  "so  I  was  going  to 
do  it  for  you.  I  had  made  a  place  for  them — the  ones 
I  knew  you  wouldn't  want  me  to  read — in  the  niche  there, 
and  I  was  going  to  show  you  to-morrow." 

"I  see,  dear.  But — a  little  sugar,  please,  I've  put  too 
much  cocoa  in  and  it's  bitter — how  did  you  know  which 
books  I  shouldn't  want  you  to  read?" 

The  boy  looked  candidly  at  him.  "Oh,  from  school, 
of  course,  sir.  The  big  fellows  used  to  read  Ovid  and 
Catullus  and  Tibullus,  and  so  on,  and  they  talked  a  bit 
about  'em.  And  Barrington  Major's  father  had  the  'De- 
cameron,' and  he — Barrington  Major — used  to  read  it. 
He  used  to  tell  some  of  the  stories  but  not  to  us  little 
boys,  only  we  heard  bits — and  as  to  Rabelais,  Mr.  Carter, 
the  chemistry  master,  had  him,  and  Billy  Erskine  *bor- 
rowed'  it  one  day  and  we  all  had  a  peep.  It  struck  me," 
the  lad  went  on,  "as  pretty  filthy,  so  I  thought  I'd  better 
count  it  in  whether  you  said  so  or  not " 

Dr.  Loxley  nodded.  "It  is.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
George,  I've  never  read  it  through  for  that  very  reason. 
I  keep  it  because  it's  a  rare  edition.  By  the  way,  I  heard 
the  other  day  that  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways  has  a  Venetian 
Boccaccio  in  his  library.  Just  think  of  that !" 

George,  left  perfectly  cold  by  the  information,  helped 
himself  to  more  cocoa,  and  his  grandfather,  forgetting 
who  his  listener  was,  pursued  excitedly: 

90 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"A  first  edition,  printed  in  1471 !  They  are  extremely 
rare,  I  believe,  because  Savonarola  preached  against  the 
book,  so  that  most  of  the  people  burned  theirs,  the 
idiots " 

"Did  they?'*  asked  George,  peacefully.  "Well,  now, 
look  here,  Gran'pa.  I've  got  together  all  the  ones  I 
know  about,  and  I  do  wish,  sir,  you  could  manage  to  find 
time  to  pick  out  the  others  and  then  we  could  put  them 
all  together;  I'd  never  look  at  them,  and  you  wouldn't 
mind  my  reading  what  I  like  amongst  the  others." 

"Quite  right.    I'll  do  it  to-morrow." 

The  clock  struck  five  as  he  spoke  and  he  rose,  but 
George  detained  him. 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  he  persisted  gently,  "please  do  it  now. 
After  all,  there  can't  be  so  many  more,  and  you  a  clergy- 
man and  all !" 

So  the  Vicar,  candle  in  hand,  made  a  solemn  round 
of  his  two  rooms,  and  when  he  forgot  where  he  was  and 
stood  too  long  looking  into  some  book,  George  roused  him 
and  got  him  started  again,  so  that  by  six  o'clock  the  work 
was  done,  and  George  had  put  the  forbidden  fruit  into 
a  small  orchard  in  a  niche  by  itself. 

Then  the  two  went  quietly  back  to  their  rooms,  and 
at  his  door  the  boy  threw  his  arms  round  his  grandfather's 
neck  and  kissed  him  as  simply  as  if  he  had  been  five  in- 
stead of  fifteen  and  a  half. 

After  that  night  Dr.  Loxley  gave  up  his  grandson's 
education  into  his  grandson's  own  hands,  and  things  were 
very  pleasant  at  the  old  Vicarage. 

It  was  in  the  second  spring  following  that  eventful 
night — and  cocoa  was  henceforth  always  to  be  inextric- 
ably and  inappropriately  connected  with  naughty  litera- 
ture in  George  Loxley's  mind — that  the  Vicarage  and  the 
Roseroofs  were  upset  and  thrilled  to  their  marrows  by 
the  arrival  of  Rachel.  Rachel  really  arrived  in  the  usual 

91 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

way,  in  an  ancient  fly  from  Middleton,  but  to  Cuckoo 
Blundell  her  coming  was  a  thing  of  mystery  and  ro- 
mance. 

For  Cuckoo,  aged  at  that  time  fourteen,  had  been  sent 
by  her  Aunt  Flora  to  the  Vicarage  as  the  bearer  of  an 
annual  gift  that  from  its  persistence  through  many  years 
had  gained  a  certain  high  solemnity. 

It  had  become  in  the  homely  calendar  of  Roseroofs, 
a  red-letter  day,  one  of  those  days  from  which  lesser  events 
are  dated,  such  as  "it  was  just  after  the  day  Maggie 
Walker  sent  the  Christmas  goose" ;  or  "it  was,  I  am  sure, 
the  day  Benjie  painted  the  kitchen-garden  palings";  or 
"it  was  the  day  I  sent  the  white  violets  to  the  Vicar." 
And  that  day  in  May  was  in  future  to  be  called  "The 
Dai/":  the  day  Rachel  first  came. 

It  was  a  lo\ely  blue-and-gold  morning,  as  Miss  Flora 
with  her  own  hands  picked  the  big  violets  in  her  plot 
(kneeling  on  an  immemorial  square  of  old  carpet,  to  pro- 
tect her  knees  from  the  damp)  and  the  garden  was  a 
place  of  promise  and  peace.  Miss  Effie's  tulips  already 
showed  in  her  garden  like  small  green  lances  and  there  were 
daffodils  everywhere.  It  was  a  gay  morning.  Miss  Flora 
wore  her  mushroom  hat  with  the  brown  ribbon  on  it  (the 
hat  that,  ten  years  before,  on  the  day  Cuckoo  came  had 
been  new  and  rose-begarlanded)  and  an  old  brown  Hol- 
land frock. 

Cuckoo,  in  washed-out  pink  cotton,  a  leggy  though  not 
a  tall  Cuckoo,  stood  by  her  aunt,  her  hands  clasped  behind 
her,  her  lips  pursed  thoughtfully. 

"You  aren't  leaving  any  for  us,"  she  exclaimed  at 
length,  as  Miss  Flora's  long,  thin  hands  went  on  with  their 
work  unfalteringly.  "And  there's  heaps  in  the  bas- 
ket  " 

Miss  Flora's  eyes,  unchanged,  in  the  years  since  the 
child's  coming,  but  for  the  deeper  and  more  thick-set 

92 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

wrinkles      round      them,      looked      up      reproachfully. 

"I  always  give  them  all  to  the  Vicar,"  she  said. 

"I  know  you  do.  And  last  year,"  the  protester  went 
on,  ruthlessly,  "he  gave  most  of  them  to  me.  I  wore  'em 
all  day  and  you  never  noticed." 

Miss  Flora  worked  for  a  minute  in  silence. 

"7  noticed,  Cuckoo!  Do  you  think  I  couldn't  recog- 
nize Flora's  white  violets?"  Miss  Effie,  who  had  come  up 
unheard  on  the  thick,  damp  grass,  glared  fixedly  at 
Cuckoo.  "I'd  have  punished  you  for  begging  them  of  the 
Vicar,  but  I  didn't  want  your  Aunt  Flora  to  know.  And 
now  you've  told  her!" 

Miss  Flora  picked  the  last  of  the  violets,  brushing  the 
thick  leaves  softly  to  and  fro  with  her  hand  to  see  that 
none  were  lurking  in  their  green  fastnesses,  and  rose.  She 
had  not  spoken  and  she  did  not  speak  now.  When  she 
disappeared  into  the  dining-room,  Miss  Effie  went  on  to 
the  apparently  unmoved  Cuckoo,  "You  are  a  hard-hearted 
little  minx,  that's  what  you  are.  You  care  for  no  one  but 
yourself,  and  if  your  Aunt  Flora  had  heard  you,  which 
luckily  she  didn't " 

"Aunt  Flora's  as  deaf  as  an  adder,"  murmured  the 
ruthless  one,  picking  a  daffodil  and  sticking  it  into  her 
dark  hair  just  over  the  ear. 

Miss  Effie  blushed,  her  painful,  unlovely  blush. 

"Your  Aunt  Flora,"  she  protested,  not  quite  truthfully, 
"is  not  deaf." 

Cuckoo  grinned,  showing  small,  pointed,  rather  car- 
nivorous-looking teeth,  as  white  as  a  dog's. 

"It  isn't  only  that,"  she  returned,  swinging  her  hat  by 
its  elastic;  "she's  good-tempered,  you  know,  and  kind. 
She's  as  blind  as  a  bat  and  always  believes  everything 
good  of  everybody,  but  for  all  that  I  love  her.  And," 
she  added,  "I  only  love  you  because  you're  my  aunt.  I'd 
love  Aunt  Flora  if  she  was  no  relation  at  all." 

93 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Having  made  this  announcement,  the  child  moved  slowly 
across  the  lawn  to  where  old  Benjie  was  turning  over  the 
earth  of  a  flower-bed. 

She  and  Benjie  were  very  good  friends,  and  though  her 
English  was  now  perfectly  good  and  made  only  a  little 
pungent  by  a  tinge  of  North-countryism,  yet  she  could 
and  did  talk  his  own  dialect  to  Benjie. 

Miss  Effie's  lips  were  drawn  into  a  tight  bunch  as  if 
pulled  together  by  an  invisible  drawing-string,  and  her 
eyes  were  opaque-looking  and  angry  as  she  gazed  after 
her  niece.  Then  suddenly,  at  the  sound  of  Cuckoo's 
laugh,  the  old  woman's  grim  face  relaxed  and  she  smiled 
and  went  into  the  house. 

In  the  past  ten  years  nothing  had  changed  at  Rose- 
roofs.  The  very  chintzes  were  the  same,  and  if  they  were 
faded,  the  eyes  of  their  mistresses  and  of  Esther  Oughten- 
shaw  had  grown  dimmer,  so  that  to  the  three  old  women 
no  difference  was  perceptible. 

Miss  Flora  was  standing  at  the  little  table  always 
called  the  flower-table,  that  stood  by  the  window  under 
the  stairs,  arranging  her  violets  in  the  old  osier  basket  in 
which  for  twenty  years  the  first-fruits  of  her  violet-bed 
had  made  their  journey  to  Widdybank  Vicarage. 

The  basket  was  filled  with  well-wetted  stag's-horn  moss 
and  on  this  the  violets  were  laid  with  great  care,  their 
heads  all  one  way,  their  feet  the  other. 

Miss  Flora  looked  up  as  her  sister  came  in. 

"You  look  tired,  Effie — is  your  heart  bad  again?" 

Miss  Effie  shook  her  head  and  sat  down  on  the  bench 
under  which  the  family  over-shoes  stood  in  a  row. 

"No,  Flora,"  she  returned  primly,  "I  am  quite  well, 
thank  you." 

After  a  minute  she  added: 

"Your  violets  are  finer  than  ever  this  year." 

Miss  Flora  smiled.  "Yes,  I  think  they  really  are,"  she 

94 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

returned  modestly,  "and  I  believe  your  yellow  tulips  are 
going  to  be  the  very  finest  you've  ever  had.  It  was  a 
good  idea  getting  the  bulbs  direct  from  Holland." 

As  she  spoke,  her  soft  eyes  suddenly  changed  and  there 
was  in  them  an  odd,  pained  acuteness,  as  if  they  were 
seeing  more  than  was  comfortable  for  them  to  see.  There 
was  in  Miss  Effie's  harsh,  bony  face  a  look  that  hurt  her 
sister. 

"What  is  Cuckoo  doing?"  Miss  Flora  asked,  with  an 
unusual  edge  in  her  voice. 

Miss  Effie  looked  up. 

"Cuckoo?  Oh,  she's  talking  with  Benjie  Brig- 
worthy." 

"Was  she — rude  or  anything,  Effie?" 

Miss  Effie  rubbed  her  nose  with  her  bony  forefinger. 

"No,  no,  Flora.    It's  just  that  she's  young." 

Miss  Flora's  gaze  relaxed  and  she  went  back  to  her 
work  of  laying  the  violets  on  the  moss. 

"That's  it,  Effie;  you  are  right,  as  usual.  As  a  rule 
you  are  perhaps  a  little  hard  on  the  child,  so  I  feared,  but 
it's  just  that — that  she's  young." 

As  they  talked,  a  young  and  pretty  girl  in  housemaid's 
dress  came  down  the  stairs  and  went  into  the  study  and 
a  moment  later  was  seen  through  the  window  by  Cuckoo 
and  Benjie  Brigworthy. 

"Hullo,  Agnes,"  Cuckoo  said,  "come  out  here  a 
moment." 

"No,  no,  Miss  Coocoo,  ah  must  do  my  cleaning " 

For  a  moment  Cuckoo  watched  her  and  then  went  on  in 
her  talk  with  the  gardener.  "She  was  crying  again  last 
night,  Benjie,"  she  said. 

The  old  man  spat  reflectively.  "Aye,  like  enough. 
She's  a  fool,  is  Agnes.  So  was  'er  mother." 

"Of  course,"  Miss  Blundell  went  on,  "he  is  good-look- 
ing, Chris  Greening " 

95 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"U-ugh!" 

She  laughed.  "I  know,  but  he  is,  Benjie.  He's  a  great, 
fine,  strong  man,  and  it's  quite  natural  she  should  want 
to  marry  him,  and  you've  no  right  to  interfere,  even  if 
she  is  your  niece." 

The  old  man  stuck  his  spade  violently  into  the  soft, 
damp  earth;  so  violently  that  it  stood  up.  With  a  quick 
movement  he  jerked  down  the  sleeve  of  his  old  flannel 
shirt,  and  then,  as  if  he  now  felt  himself  in  sufficiently  con- 
ventional attire  to  talk  seriously,  he  turned. 

"Look  'ee  'ere,  Miss  Coocoo,"  he  began,  maintaining  his 
composure  with  difficulty,  "don't  you  go  and  encourage 
the  lass  to  do  any  foolishness.  What's  looks  got  to  do 
with  marrying?  It's  brass  that  counts,  I  tell  'ee.  Brass. 
And  yon  lad  hasn't  a  ha'penny.  So  don't  you  go  upset- 
ting her." 

Cuckoo's  odd  eyes  were  ablaze  with  interest.  They 
were  not  so  small  as  they  once  were  and  their  thick,  short 
lashes  cast  distinct  shadows  on  her  cheeks,  as  she  opened 
and  closed  them  rapidly  before  speaking. 

At  last  she  said:  "I  know,  Benjie.  Nought's  any  good 
without  brass.  But  if  Chris  hasn't  any,  neither  has  any- 
one else.  Anyone  for  Agnes,  I  mean." 

Old  Brigworthy  glanced  cautiously  round  him. 

"Look  'ere,  Miss  Coocoo,"  he  answered,  in  a  harsh  un- 
dertone, "you're  a  sensible  lass ;  I  believe  you  do  know 
what's  what.  All  the  things  you've  carneyed  and  coaxed 
out  of  your  aunties — I  like  to  see  a  young  girl  know  what's 
what !  Well  now,  look  ye  here.  Isaac  Vesper's  got  brass. 
And  lots  of  it.  Lots !" 

The  young  girl's  sallow  cheeks  showed  two  little  spots 
of  flame-color  and  her  eyes  glowed. 

"Isaac  Vosper  ?  The  old  man's  son !  I  didn't  know  he 
had  a  son.  Or  is  it  a  grandson?" 

"No  son  nor  grandson.    It's  t'owd  man  hisself." 

96 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"But — that  old  man  can't  want  to  marry  Agnes  ?" 

There  was  in  her  voice  a  sincere  horror,  at  which  Brig- 
worthy  frowned  sourly. 

"  'E  does  then.  He's  not  young,  to  be  sure,  but — Lord, 
t'brass  t'man  ha'  gotten  together!  Horses  he'd  give  her, 
and  servant-maids,  and  rings  and  gowd  chains — thirty- 
six  cows  he's  got,  and  a  draaa-in'-room  at  farm  bettern' 
most  gentlemen " 

After  a  pause,  during  which  he  allowed  the  glory  of 
these  possessions  time  to  penetrate  fully  into  his  hearer's 
mind,  the  old  man  went  on : 

"And  all  o'  them  fine  things  could  be  hers.  He's  crazy 
about  her — owd  f ewl !" 

The  invisible  Agnes  was  now  singing  in  a  high,  cheer- 
ful voice,  as  she  worked  in  the  study. 

Cuckoo  listened  for  a  moment  and  then  she  asked 
slowly,  her  face  darkened  by  profound  thought,  "How,  old 
is  he,  Benjie?" 

"On'y  six-and-fifty,  Miss  Coocoo " 

"All  right,  Benjie,"  she  declared  firmly,  "I'll  advise 
her  to  take  him.  I'll  tell  her — all  about  the  beautiful 
things  she  could  have,  and  besides,"  she  added  import- 
antly, "there's  another  thing  that  you  haven't  thought 
of." 

Benjie  rolled  his  sleeves  back  up  over  his  ropy,  brown 
arms  to  his  bony  elbows. 

"O — aye — Miss  Coocoo?" 

"I  shall  tell  her,"  Robert  Blundell's  daughter  declared 
firmly,  with  no  trace  of  reluctance  or  shamefacedness, 
"that  she  must  just  be  patient,  and  that  he  is  sure  to  die 
before  long." 

Then  she  went  into  the  house,  put  her  basket  over  her 
arm,  and  started  off  down  the  short  path  to  Widdybank. 
Her  young  mind  full  of  Agnes,  the  ineligible  Chris  Green- 
ing, and  the  highly  eligible  Isaac  Vosper,  she  crossed  the 

97 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

road  leading  up  from  Warcop,  dived  down  into  Flaye 
Ghyll,  a  deep,  wooded  ravine  between  the  dale  and  Mel- 
done  Edge,  crawled  through  the  brushwood  to  the  other 
side,  then,  by  striking  into  the  path  from  Flaye  Ghyll  it- 
self to  Widdybank,  she  saved  herself  nearly  half  an  hour 
and  reached  the  Vicarage  by  eleven  o'clock. 

And  it  was  in  the  mood  nursed  by  her  talk  with  old 
Brigworthy  and  her  musings  about  Agnes  and  her  suitors, 
that  she  met  Rachel  Poole. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

RACHEL  POOLE  was  seated  in  the  largest  arm- 
chair in  the  Vicarage  drawing-room,  attired  in 
pale  blue  silk  edged  with  swan's-down. 

Near  her  stood  three  large  trunks,  and  in  front  of  one 
of  them  knelt  a  narrow-shouldered,  red-headed  woman, 
whose  mission  in  life  appeared  to  be  to  burrow  into  the 
trunk  and  bring  out  objects  desired  by  the  sovereign  in 
silk. 

"Eh  bien,  moi  je  vous  dis"  the  sovereign  was  declar- 
ing, as  Cuckoo  stood  in  the  door,  "qu'il  y  est.  I  saw  you 
put  him  there  myself,  with  my  own  eyes  I  saw !" 

Then,  noting  Cuckoo  for  the  first  time,  the  speaker 
added  composedly  to  the  newcomer,  "She's  a  perfect 
idiot,  you  know!  I  told  mamma  so.  I  wanted  Helo'ise, 
but  this  one  can't  marcel  for  nuts,  so  she,  mamma,  made 
me  bring  it." 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Cuckoo,  bluntly. 

"I'm  Lady  Rachel  Poole.    Who  are  you?" 

Cuckoo,  furious  with  herself  for  being  impressed  by  the 
title  and  the  glory  of  the  silken  attire,  returned  with 
unusual  grimness  that  she  was  Nicoleta  Blundell. 

At  this,  to  her  surprise,  Lady  Rachel  descended  from 
her  throne  and,  approaching,  held  out  her  hand  in  a  very 
friendly  manner.  "I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said; 
"George  has  told  me  all  about  you." 

Cuckoo  shrugged  her  shoulders,  for  she  was  not  nearly 
so  tall  as  her  new  acquaintance,  and  this  made  her  angry. 
"George  is  a  nice  boy,"  she  remarked,  with  some  hauteur, 

99 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"but  he  is  very  forgetful.  He  has  never  mentioned  you  to 
me." 

At  this  moment  the  red-headed  maid  turned  from  the 
disembowelled  box  before  which  she  knelt.  "Le  voilci, 
Miladi,"  she  cried,  holding  up  a  small,  green  silk  umbrella 
with  a  jade  handle. 

"Bon.    Didn't  I  tell  you?" 

Then  Lady  Rachel  took  Cuckoo  by  the  arm  and  led 
her  upstairs  into  the  best  bedroom,  the  one  from  whose 
window  one  of  the  Misses  Plues,  five  years  before,  had 
watched  Robert  Blundell's  funeral,  and  bade  her  sit 
down. 

"They  couldn't  get  our  boxes  up  the  stairs,  so  Jeanne 
has  to  unpack  in  the  drawing-room.  How  old  are  you?" 

''Nearly  fifteen,"  answered  Cuckoo  carelessly,  still 
struggling  against  the  horrible  feeling  of  rusticity  and 
little-girlhood  that  Rachel's  urban  manner  produced  in 
her;  "how  old  are  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sixteen.  The  third  of  last  month.  I'm  just 
three  years  younger  than  George.  His  mother  and  my 
mother  were  sisters,  you  know,  so  we  are  cousins." 

"Obviously,"  remarked  Cuckoo,  in  her  most  high-nosed 
way.  This  new  girl  might  be  a  ladyship,  and  tall,  and 
fair,  and  pretty  (Cuckoo  never  made  the  mistake  of 
under-rating  other  people's  advantages)  but  it  was  clear 
that  she  wasn't  very  brilliant. 

The  two  sat  down  in  little  straight-backed  chairs  and 
regarded  each  other  warily. 

Lady  Rachel  was  indeed  a  much  taller  girl  than  Cuckoo, 
and  she  was  softer-looking  as  well.  Her  beautiful,  fair 
skin  was  of  the  purest  rosy  white,  and  her  heavy  mass  of 
straw-colored  hair  hung  down  over  her  shoulders  smooth 
and  broken  and  sculptural-looking,  the  hairs  being  ap- 
parently of  exactly  the  same  length.  Her  bare  throat  was 
velvety,  almost  downy-looking,  and  Cuckoo  perceived  with 

100 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  pang  of  envy  that  her  breasts  were  already  beautifully 
rounded. 

For  a  moment  the  younger  girl  hated  her  own  flat, 
bony  little  chest  and  could  have  beaten  it  in  her  jealous 
anger. 

Then  her  face  cleared  suddenly,  for  the  feet  in  quilted 
blue  satin  slippers  that  Lady  Rachel  had  crossed  were 
large  and  the  ankles  were  thick. 

Cuckoo  stuck  out  one  of  her  own  narrow,  bony  little 
feet  which,  shod  as  they  were  by  the  Warcop  shoemaker, 
yet  showed  their  slim  beauty  and  restored  her  trembling 
self-confidence. 

"What  pretty  slippers  those  are,"  she  said,  smiling. 

Rachel  nodded.  "Yes,  aren't  they?  I  got  them  at 
the  Bon  Marche.  In  Paris,  you  know " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  where  the  Bon  Marche  is.  It 
isn't,"  Cuckoo  added,  with  her  singular  air  of  hauteur, 
"so  good  as  the  shops  in  the  rue  de  la  Paix " 

Rachel  stared.     "Oh,  so  you've  been  there?" 

Cuckoo,  though  she  was  being  an  outrageous  snob  for 
the  moment,  rarely  lied. 

"I've  been  there,"  she  returned,  "but  I  don't  remember 
it  much,  I  was  very  young.  But  of  course  I  know  about 
the  rue  de  la  Paix " 

Little  by  little  the  two  girls  made  friends,  and  then 
came  the  episode  of  the  green  umbrella. 

This  umbrella,  brought  upstairs  by  Rachel  and  placed 
against  the  dressing-table,  had  been  the  object  of  many 
stolen  glances  from  Cuckoo.  Cuckoo  had  a  passion  for 
green,  and  this  silk  was  of  all  greens  the  greenest  and 
most  ravishing.  The  umbrella  was  a  small  entout-cas  of 
delicate  shape,  and  its  handle  was  a  duck's  head  carved 
in  jade. 

Often,  when  she  was  older,  Cuckoo  recalled  how  fiercely, 
how  unbearably,  she  had  wanted  that  umbrella. 

101 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

And,  after  much  investigatory  conversation,  her  chance 
came. 

Rachel  had  explained  that,  her  two  little  brothers,  An- 
gus and  Jimmy,  having  developed  scarlet  fever,  she  had 
been  packed  off  to  Yorkshire  to  be  out  of  harm's  way; 
that  she  lived  in  Chesham  Place ;  that  Angus  was  thirteen 
and  Jimmy — freckled,  but  adorable — only  nine;  that  the 
place  in  Suffolk,  Planings,  was  let  for  another  two  years 
to  some  perfectly  frightful  South  African  Jews,  to  save 
up  for  Angus'  majority — (Oh,  yes,  Angus  was  the  heir, 
at  least,  he  wasn't  the  heir  as  he  was  already  Lord  Pelter, 
poor  Papa  being  dead)  ;  and  that  Rachel  was  sure  her 
mother  would  marry  again  before  long,  she  was  so  pretty, 
and  as,  after  all,  she  and  poor  Papa  hadn't  got  on  very 
well  together.  All  these  things  had  been  poured  into 
Cuckoo's  little  brown  ears  before  the  chance  came.  It 
came  with  a  crash ! 

Rachel  suddenly  noticed  the  basket  her  new  friend  held 
and  wanted  to  know — she  was  as  curious  as  she  was  com- 
municative— what  was  under  the  leaves. 

Very  carefully,  for  in  spite  of  her  young  disdain  of  her 
Aunt  Flora's  funny  little  ways,  she  was  not  altogether 
unimpressed  by  the  solemnity  of  the  yearly  offering, 
Cuckoo  lifted  off  the  broad,  damp  leaves  and  displayed 
the  treasure. 

And  Rachel  instantly  wanted  them.  "Do  give  them 
to  me,  there's  a  dear,"  she  begged.  "You  can  get  more, 
and  I  do  want  them !  Let  me  have  another  sniff." 

Cuckoo  drew  back.  "Don't  blow  them,"  she  said 
roughly. 

"I  don't  want  to  blow  them;  I  want  to  smell  them, 
the  angels.  Oh,  Nicky — I  shall  call  you  Nicky, 
I  don't  like  Cuckoo — do  be  a  lamb  and  let  me  have 
them!" 

"No." 

102 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Heavens,  what  a  funny  voice  you  have,  like  the  wolf's 
in  'Red  Riding-Hood!'  Do  let  me  have  them.  I  want 
them,  you  see,  and  I  always  have  my  own  way  1" 

"Well,  you  can't  have  these."  Cuckoo  rose  and 
walked  across  the  room,  meaning  to  go  down  to  the  library 
and  rid  herself  of  her  troublesome  offering,  but  as  she 
reached  the  door  an  idea  occurred  to  her;  an  idea  per- 
fectly magnificent  in  its  splendid  lawlessness. 

"You  can't  have  everything  you  want  in  this  world," 
she  said  slowly,  turning  and  looking  at  Rachel,  "nobody 
can.  I  want  lots  of  things,  too " 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?  Of  mine,  I  mean,"  asked 
the  pampered  Rachel  eagerly.  "Do  you  like  corals?  I'll 
give  you  my  little  ones  for  the  violets !" 

"I  don't  like  corals  and  I  loathe  beads." 

"Well,  these  slippers,  then?  You  said  you  liked  them, 
and  I've  got  another  pair " 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "They  are,"  she  answered,  "miles  too 
big  for  me.  But,  if  you  really  like  the  violets  so  much, 
will  you  give  me  your  green  umbrella  for  them?" 

Rachel  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment,  and  then  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  object  of  Cuckoo's  passion.  "Oh,  that? 
Yes,  you  may  have  it  if  you  like;  I  don't  care  for  green, 
and  I've  got  a  pink  one " 

Cuckoo's  eyes,  cleared  a  little  of  their  bluish  mist  in 
her  excitement,  fixed  on  her  new  friend's.  "Honor 
bright?" 

"Honor  bright." 

"Then  wait  a  moment,  I  must  just  speak  to  the  Vicar," 
and  she  plunged  downstairs  before  the  slower-witted  Ra- 
chel had  time  even  to  protest. 

The  Vicar  was  writing  when  she  burst  into  the  library, 
but  he  looked  up  kindly,  for  he  was  fond  of  the  little 
girl,  as  he  called  her.  He  kissed  her,  patted  her  shoulder, 
and  then  she  burst  out.  For  three  minutes  she  talked, 

103 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

with  a  volubility  and  richness  of  gesture  that  surprised 
the  quiet  old  man. 

When  she  stopped,  he  shook  his  head.  "But  what  on 
earth,"  he  asked  gently,  "could  I  do  with  a  green  sun- 
shade?" 

However,  she  had,  in  a  few  minutes,  coaxed  him  into 
accepting  the  violets,  sending  his  love  and  thanks  to  Miss 
Flora,  and  then  giving  the  violets  to  Cuckoo  herself. 

"I'll  never  tell,  dearest  Vicar,"  she  assured  him,  kissing 
his  pink  bald  spot,  "but  if  she  ever  found  out,  I'd  own  up. 
Is  that  all  right?" 

It  was,  and  an  hour  later  Miss  Blundell  was  marching 
back  to  Roseroofs,  a  green  silk  halo  about  her  wicked  lit- 
tle head.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  been  so  happy ;  never 
in  her  life  had  she  owned  anything  that  so  absolutely  ful- 
filled her  ideal  of  the  beautiful. 

She  loved  the  umbrella,  she  loved  Rachel,  she  loved 
the  Vicar,  she  loved  everybody.  And  as  she  walked  she 
talked  to  herself,  as  her  lonely  walks  had  long  since  taught 
her  to  do. 

"Yes,"  she  declared  airily,  to  an  imaginary  girl ;  a  girl 
littler,  darker,  thinner  than  herself:  "I'm  fond  of  green; 
I  have  a  rose-colored  one,  and  a  blue  one,  but  this  is  my 
favorite.  .  .  .  And  I  prefer  silk  nightgowns,  crepe-de- 
Chine  ones,  with  embroidery  and  lace.  And  my  dressing- 
gowns,  my  dear,"  she  went  on,  "are  all  silk,  of  course,  and 
trimmed  with — with  powder-puff  stuff " 

"Swan's-down,  Kiddy,"  put  in  a  new  voice,  and  behold, 
there  was  George  sitting  on  the  grass  with  a  book  on  his 
knees. 

Interdicted,  she  stood  staring  up  at  him,  her  ears 
burning. 

"I'm  making  believe,"  she  declared,  clutching  at  the 
boldness  that  for  a  moment  had  failed  her,  "it's  great 
fun." 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"It  is,"  George  agreed.  "Where'd  you  get  the  brolly, 
Cuckoo?" 

Climbing  up  to  him,  she  sat  down.  "Rachel  gave  it 
to  me.  I  say,  George,  why  didn't  you  ever  tell  me  you 
had  a  cousin  in  London?" 

The  youth  smiled  the  sweet,  lingering  smile  that  so 
transfigured  his  pale,  plain  face. 

"I  d'know.  I  suppose  I  forgot.  Isn't  she  pretty, 
Cuckoo?" 

Cuckoo  nodded.  Safely  in  possession  of  the  green  um- 
brella, it  was  nothing  to  her  how  pretty  Rachel  was. 
"Yes,  and  her  hair  is  lovely,  isn't  it?" 

George  Loxley  at  nearly  nineteen  looked  not  much  more 
than  sixteen,  so  childlike  were  his  great  eyes,  so  innocent 
of  a  mustache  his  whimsically  curved  lips.  He  had  al- 
ready reached  his  not  very  imposing  full  height  and  his 
too  short  coat-sleeves  revealed  his  wrists  to  be  bony  and 
ugly,  and  as  white  as  milk. 

His  hat  lay  on  the  ground  beside  him  and  his  usually 
smooth  hair  was  ruffled. 

Cuckoo  surveyed  him  critically,  wondering  what  the 
grand  Rachel  would  think  of  him.  She  herself  was 
fond  of  George  in  her  cool  way,  for  he  had  always  been 
kind  to  her,  despite  the  fact  that  he  often  disapproved  her 
naughtiness  and  openly  sided,  in  their  frequent  disputes, 
against  her  and  with  the  aunts. 

The  aunts  had  always  loved  the  gentle,  quiet  boy,  and 
on  more  than  one  occasion  Miss  Flora  had  transplanted 
herself  to  the  Vicarage,  to  nurse  him  through  one  of  his 
childish  illnesses.  Once,  when,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  he 
was  deep  in  Cowper's  translation  of  the  Iliad,  Miss  Flora, 
to  soothe  a  feverish  night,  had  read  to  him,  hour  after 
hour,  out  of  some  old  book  of  fairy-tales.  He  endured  it 
very  patiently  and  never  told  her  how  bored  he  was,  and 
after  that,  of  course,  he  loved  her  all  the  better.  So  the 

105 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

lad  felt  towards  the  small,  black-haired  child  at  Rose- 
roofs  much  as  he  would  have  felt  towards  a  naughty  little 
sister,  and  her  aunts  were  doubtless  dearer  to  him  than 
they  were  to  her. 

He  looked  at  her  now  with  mildly  critical  eyes  as  she 
peacocked  with  the  green  umbrella. 

"Are  you  being  good  to  the  aunts,  Kiddy?"  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"Yes.     What  are  you  reading,  Doad?" 

"Keats." 

"What  is  a  Keat,  George?" 

But  he  caught  the  gleam  in  her  downcast  eyes,  refused 
to  be  drawn  and  went  on,  "What  are  you  studying 
now?" 

"Oh,  it's  Aunt  Flora's  turn  at  me,  so  I'm  busy  with 
embroidery  and  the  piano.  I  don't  like  them  much,  but 
they're  better  than  Euclid  and  Ancient  History,"  she 
returned,  indifferently,  "Aunt  Effie  was  dreadful  this  time 
with  the  Romans.  I  hate  Romans." 

"I  see.     What  about  literature?" 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "Oh,  that's  better.  Wordsworth, 
and  Coleridge  and  Mrs.  Hemans.  Mrs.  Hemans,"  she 
commented,  "goes  splendidly  with  fuchsias  in  silk !" 

After  a  pause  she  continued  in  a  different  voice,  "Do 
you  know,  George,  Rachel  thought  Troy  was  in  Egypt; 
she  told  me  so !  She  had  a  perfectly  splendid  governess, 
a  Frenchwoman,  such  a  darling!  They  never  had  any 
lessons  at  all!" 

"Splendid  governess,  indeed!    Well,  are  you  off?" 

"Yes,  the  Vicar  asked  me  to  stay  to  lunch,  but  there's 
curried  mutton  at  the  Vicarage,  and  we're  having  Choco- 
late Puff-up-and-Busts,  so  I  said  I'd  come  back  after 
lunch." 

Thus  clearly  explaining  her  reasons  for  refusing  the 
hospitality  of  the  Vicarage,  she  went  her  way  along  the 

106 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

slope,  twirling  and  swinging  the  sunshade  and  pausing 
every  now  and  then  to  admire  it. 

Young  Loxley  watched  her  for  a  while  and  then  re- 
turned to  his  book.  He  had  two  roast  beef  sandwiches  in 
his  pocket  and  was  not  going  home  to  lunch. 

The  coming  of  Rachel  had  distracted  him,  but  only  as 
it  had  disturbed  his  grandfather ;  he  was  too  young,  nearly 
nineteen  though  he  was,  to  have  experienced  any  pleas- 
anter  kind  of  emotion  over  the  arrival  in  the  Vicarage  of 
a  pretty  girl. 

Very  young  he  was,  and  very  young  he  looked,  as  he 
sat  there  in  the  sun — for  he  was  a  chilly  creature — his 
pale,  long  face  bent  over  old  Howell's  delightful  let- 
ters. 

Lady  Rachel  Poole  stayed  at  Widdybank  the  greater 
part  of  the  summer,  and  she  and  Cuckoo  were  during 
the  whole  of  the  time  inseparable,  except  during  the  hours 
when  Cuckoo  was  with  Miss  Flora,  undergoing  the  proc- 
ess of  education.  Miss  Flora  was  very  conscientious  about 
this  education;  she  had  not  forgotten  her  promise  to 
Blundell  and  to  the  best  of  her  powers  she  was  fulfilling 
it.  Cuckoo  could  embroider,  though  she  had  no  particu- 
lar liking  for  it ;  she  played  the  piano  in  an  old-fashioned, 
high-fingered  little  way ;  she  knew  miles  of  verse  by  heart. 
Aunt  Flora's  lessons  were  at  least  less  irksome  than  Aunt 
Effie's,  she  thought. 

In  the  first  flow  of  their  friendship  the  two  girls  tried 
to  work  together,  but  this  plan  was  soon  given  up. 

Rachel  was  lazy,  luxurious,  and  grown-up  in  ways  in 
which  Cuckoo  was  still  a  child,  and  Wordsworth  bored 
her  to  extinction,  though  she  derived  some  entertainment 
from  an  old  volume  of  Byron  that  she  found  in  the  study, 
and  her  clumsiness  with  a  needle  was  too  much  for  even 
Miss  Flora's  long-suffering. 

107 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"I  feel  that  you  hurt  the  silk,  jerking  it  that  way," 
Miss  Flora  burst  out  one  day,  in  her  highest  voice.  "I 
can't  bear  to  see  it " 

So  Cuckoo's  lessons,  after  a  very  short  interval  of 
companionship,  went  on  as  before,  alone  with  her  instruc- 
tress. 

Rachel,  although  as  vain  as  are  most  pretty  girls  with 
no  brains  to  speak  of,  had  a  kind  of  adoration  for  her 
new  friend,  for  Cuckoo  was  bold  and  brave  and  never 
changed  her  mind,  whereas  Rachel's  was  a  fluid,  unstable 
character,  changing  under  every  influence.  She  could, 
however,  beat  Cuckoo  in  many  varieties  of  grown-upness 
and  in  the  matter  of  belongings  her  superiority  was 
crushing. 

Rachel  had  a  necklet  of  small  pearls,  and  two  pretty 
rings;  she  had  delicate,  filmy  under-linen,  tucked  and 
belaced;  she  had  soft,  kid  slippers  with  soles  so  flexible 
that  they  could  be  bent  double ;  and  sashes  that  were  satin 
on  one  side  and  silk  on  the  other ;  she  had  hats  gay  and 
delightful  with  flowers  exactly  like  real  ones,  and  long, 
wrinkly  gloves,  whose  fingers  really  reached  to  the  roots 
of  her  fingers  instead  of  stopping  half-way  between  them 
and  the  second  joint.  Lucky  Rachel! 

And  then,  her  wonderful  toilet  things!  Scented  soap 
she  had,  and  lots  of  sponges,  and  tooth-paste  that 
squeedged  out  of  the  tubes  in  jolly  white  worms,  instead 
of  nasty,  scratchy,  precipitated  chalk;  and  elder-flower 
water  for  her  skin,  and  glycerine-and-honey  jelly  for 
her  hands ;  and  heavenly  skin-food  that  smelt  of  roses  for 
her  face  at  night ;  and  purple  crystal  things  that  turned 
her  bath  into  a  dream  of  delight. 

And  of  these  wonderful,  desirable  things,  Cuckoo  had 
none. 

George,  though  silent  and  ordinarily  dreamy,  was  not 
without  observation  and,  knowing  Cuckoo,  he  watched  her 

108 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

closely  during  the  first  fortnight  of  his  cousin's  visit  for 
signs  of  envy. 

He  watched  in  vain  and  the  reason  is  this:  at  first 
Rachel's  belongings  seemed  to  Cuckoo  miraculous ;  then 
she  saw  that  they  were  merely  luxurious;  and  very  soon 
she  realized  them  to  be  not  really  luxurious,  but  merely 
necessities,  sheer  necessities  of  life. 

And  whereas  she  herself  could  never  have  hoped  to 
attain  to  the  miraculous,  and  barely  to  the  luxurious,  she 
knew  that  to  life's  necessities  she  could  and  would  attain. 
She,  Cuckoo,  must,  and  would,  have  all  the  things  Rachel 
already  so  carelessly  possessed. 

This  conviction,  not  arrived  at  by  determination 
but  by  a  kind  of  inward  evolution,  brought  with  it  com- 
plete lack  of  envy  and  a  kind  of  high  peace. 

Not  only  would  she  one  day  have  all  that  Rachel  had, 
but  when  her  time  came  she  would  improve  on  Rachel's 
things.  Orange-flower  water,  for  instance,  instead  of 
elder-flower;  her  gloves  should  all  be  pale  tan,  instead  of 
gray;  and  scent  that  smelt  of  real  violets,  whereas  Ra- 
chel's Violette  de  Parme  smelt  of  vanilla.  Oh,  yes,  she 
would  improve  on  Rachel,  when — not  if,  there  was  no  if 
in  her  mind — her  time  came! 

Meantime,  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  were  both  moved 
to  admiration  at  what  they  considered  their  niece's  sin- 
gular lack  of  envy. 

Cuckoo's  almost  abnormal  acquisitiveness  had  always 
troubled  them,  although  they  had  never  directly  discussed 
it,  and  they  had  both  feared  that  her  lust  of  possession 
would  have  been  violently  stirred  by  her  new  friend's  mag- 
nificent belongings. 

And  when  they  perceived  her  serenity,  even  when  con- 
fronted by  a  new  embroidered  muslin  frock  that  the  con- 
ceited Rachel,  so  to  speak,  brandished  under  her  very  nose, 
Miss  Effie  couldn't  resist  commenting  on  it. 

109 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"I  am  pleased  with  Cuckoo,  Flora,"  she  said.  "In  spite 
of  all  Rachel's  beautiful  things  she  is  as  satisfied  as  ever 
with  her  own  simple  ones " 

"Yes,  I'm  so  pleased  you  noticed  that,  Effie."  Miss 
Flora  gave  her  little  nervous  laugh.  "I  was  a  little 
afraid " 

"H'm!    Yes,  so  was  I.    However,  we  were  both  wrong." 

Miss  Flora's  laugh  melted  into  her  odd,  fixed  smile  that 
looked  so  nearly  vacant.  "Yes,  we  were  wrong;  I  am  so 
glad  you  noticed  it,  too." 

Miss  Effie  straightened  herself  in  her  chair.  "I  know 
what  you  mean,  Flora.  You  always  think  I'm  hard  on  the 
child  and  perhaps  I  may  be.  I  have  reasons  of  which 
you  do  not  know,  but — I  hope  I  am  never  unfair,  even 
though  I  happen  to  have  sharp  eyes,"  she  said,  austerely. 

Rachel  "adored"  Aunt  Flora,  whom  she  called  quaint 
and  delicious;  Aunt  Effie  she  disliked  and  said  so.  "I 
really  don't  like  her,  you  know,"  she  said  to  Cuckoo,  "and 
I  can't  help  telling  you  so.  I'm  frightfully  frank,"  she 
added,  "really  horribly  downright,  and  always  say  wnat 
I  think." 

Cuckoo  listened  to  these  self-interpretations,  not  being 
downright  enough  herself  to  disagree  audibly  with  them. 

The  affair  of  pretty  Agnes  Watlass  and  her  two  suitors 
greatly  interested  the  girls,  and  they  spent  hours  dis- 
cussing it,  particularly  after  one  evening  when,  walking 
for  a  wonder  in  silence  across  the  grass  on  the  uplands, 
they  came  on  Agnes  and  Chris  Greening  wrapped  in  each 
other's  arms  as  they  said  good-night. 

"My  word,"  gasped  Cuckoo,  when  the  lovers,  without 
seeing  them,  had  separated  and  gone  beyond  earshot,  "I 
thought  they  were  never  going  to  stop." 

She  laughed,  the  easy,  unembarrassed  laugh  of  a  child. 

Rachel  did  not  laugh.  "They  really  love  each  other, 
you  see,"  she  explained  with  some  loftiness.  "It  reminded 

110 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

me  of — 'a  man  had  given  all  other  something  or  other 
for  this, 

'To  waste  his  whole  life  in  one  kiss 
Upon  those  perfect  lips, '  " 

Cuckoo  grew  round-eyed.  "My  goodness,  Ray,"  she 
exclaimed,  "poor  Agnes'  lips  aren't  perfect.  But  I  know 
that  thing.  It's  Tennyson.  I  always  wondered  what  it 
meant." 

Rachel  sighed,  with  an  "I-could-an-I-would"  manner. 
"You  are  a  baby,  Nicky !  Of  course  I  know  more  than 
you,  for  I've  a  married  sister.  Although,"  she  added, 
"poor  Phil  is,  of  course,  a  hopeless  outsider." 

"Mr.  Brinkley  is?"  Cuckoo  asked  briskly;  "then  why 
did  Rosamund  marry  him?" 

"She  married  him  for  sixty  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
my  child." 

Cuckoo  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Oh,  well,  there,"  she 
returned,  with  conviction,  "of  course!" 

Rachel  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise.  "How  funnily 
you  said  that!  It  really  is  awful,  Nicky.  Once,  in  the 
beginning,  he  actually  called  poor  mamma  'your  lady- 
ship.' " 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Cuckoo  remarked  tensely, 
"I  shouldn't  care  if  he  called  her  'ma-am,'  if  he  had  sixty 
thousand  pounds  a  year." 

They  had  reached  the  road  leading  along  the  top  of  the 
Edge,  and  paused,  struck,  despite  their  young  egotism 
and  curiosities,  by  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

The  sky  to  westward  looked  like  liquid  gold,  and  round 
about  them  the  high  moorland,  violet  patched  with  deep 
purple,  gradually  warmed,  blossomed*  as  it  seemed,  in 
the  light. 

Immediately  below  where  they  stood  the  hill  was  devas- 

111 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

tated  and  torn  by  an  ancient  deserted  lead-mine.  It 
gaped,  all  rough  heaps  of  stone  and  ugly  dark  holes,  like 
a  gigantic,  half-healed  wound.  "The  Cold  Comfort 
Mine,"  Cuckoo  explained,  in  answer  to  her  friend's  ques- 
tion. "An  old  Roman  lead  mine." 

"How  hideous  it  is!" 

Cuckoo  nodded.  "Yes.  Only— it  makes  the  sky  and 
the  moorland  look  all  the  more  splendid.  Like — like — 
like  Mr.  Brinkley's  manners  and  his  sixty  thousand 
pounds  a  year!" 

"You  are  a  queer  thing,  Nicky !  I  believe  you  are  really 
and  truly  mercenary." 

"I  am." 

"It's  awfully  funny,  when  you're  so  young" — but  how- 
ever interesting  Cuckoo's  peculiarities  might  be,  Rachel's 
own  personality  was  far  more  engrossing  to  Rachel  and 
she  went  on,  "I'm  not — mercenary,  I  mean.  We're  fear- 
fully poor,  of  course,  and  I'd  love  to  be  rich,  but — I 
wouldn't  have  married  Phil  Brinkley  if  he'd  had  a  million 
a  year." 

Cuckoo  looked  at  her  shrewdly.  "Love  in  a  cottage 
for  you,  I  suppose?" 

The  elder  girl  gave  a  sentimental  little  laugh. 

"Oh,  I'd  prefer  a  big  house,  of  course,  but — if  I  loved  a 
poor  man  I'd  marry  him.  I  suppose  I'm  a  fool  but  I 
would.  I  should  love  to  work  for  him,  I'd  even  cook — I 
couldn't  marry  a  man  I  didn't  love " 

These  mature  reflections  were  interrupted  ruthlessly 
by  Miss  Blundell,  who,  pausing  at  the  top  of  the  path  by 
the  Green  Bench,  made  her  declaration  of  faith. 

"I,"  she  said  slowly,  speaking  rather  to  the  listening 
iciale  than  to  Rachel,  "would  marry  anyone  who  had  plenty 
of  money.  I'd  marry  the  ugliest,  beastliest,  vulgarest 
man  in  the  world — if  he  was  rich  enough." 

Rachel's  disapproval,  however,  was  not  unmixed  with 

112 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

admiration.  "You  wouldn't,  Nicky,"  she  cried.  "Think 
of  breakfast  every  day.  Think,"  she  went  on,  with  a 
quick  glance  round,  "of  him  in  bed." 

Cuckoo's  eyes,  dulling  as  was  their  way  in  her  moments 
of  deep  feeling,  were  fixed  on  the  beautiful  rose-colored 
roofs  in  the  trees  below  them.  "I  shouldn't  mind  a  bit," 
she  answered  slowly,  obviously  missing  the  elder  girl's 
point,  "not  one  bit.  If  he  was  rich  enough.  I'd  marry  a 
black  man  if  he  was." 

Beaten  and  abashed  by  this  splendid  determination, 
Rachel  gave  up,  openly,  however,  declaring  for  romance. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  wouldn't.  You  are  too  young, 
I  s'pose,  to  understand  about  love,  but  I " 

"Oh,  bosh,  Ray!  What  do  you  know  about  it,  with 
your  hair  still  down!  Come  along,  I'll  race  you  to  the 
gate " 

But  at  the  gate,  Rachel,  as  she  sat  on  the  grass  saying 
good-night,  reverted  to  the  subject. 

"Suppose  your  rich  man  was  unfaithful  to  you?" 

Cuckoo  chewed  a  blade  of  grass  and  then  spat  it  out 
unblushingly.  "How  d'you  mean?" 

"Well,  some  men  are,  and  it's  horrid.  It's  awful,  Nicky 
darling !" 

"Oh,  you  mean  running  away?"  commented  Cuckoo 
coldly.  "I  know.  The  draper's  wife  at  Upshaw  ran  away 
with  a  commercial  traveler.  She  left  the  children  behind." 

Rachel  shuddered.  "Evy  Rainsford  left  her  baby — 
and  it  died.  She  bolted  with  Pelly  Janeways.  Oh,  Nicky," 
she  continued  in  a  voice  of  rapture,  "now  there's  a  man !" 

"He's  old,"  answered  Cuckoo,  indifferently.  "I  know 
him,  and  he's  years  older  than  my  father " 

Rachel  gave  a  little  scream  of  excitement.  "No, 
Cuckoo!  You  can't  mean  it.  That  you  actually  know 
him?  Why,  he's  the  most  fascinating  man  in  the  world. 
He's  been  three  times  in  the  divorce  court — he  married 

113 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

two  of  them — he's  called  the  Magnificent — from  some  old 
Italian,  Lorenzo  something  or  other — he's  really  Italian, 
you  know.  Isn't  he  a  pet,  and  aren't  his  eyes  too  won- 
derful?" 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "He  promised  me  a  pony  and  never 
gave  it  to  me,"  she  said.  "I  thought  him  an  old  pig,  if 
you  ask  me!" 

As  the  two  girls  kissed  each  other  good-night,  Rachel 
promised  to  continue  the  story  of  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways 
the  next  day. 

"He's  wonderful,  whatever  you  may  say,"  she  declared. 
"And  he  owns  the  most  wonderful  jewels.  Did  you  ever 
hear  about  the  Bag  of  Saffron?" 

"No.     You  put  saffron  in  puddings,  don't  you?" 

But  this  bag  of  saffron,  it  seemed,  was  a  wonderful 
jewel  on  a  diamond  chain.  "Mamma  once  saw  it — his 
mother  used  to  wear  it  when  mamma  was  a  little  girl — 
good-night,  darling,"  concluded  Rachel,  with  a  last  kiss. 
"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  tomorrow." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THERE  was,  however,  no  time  for  talk  about  Sir 
Peregrine  Janeways'  jewels  the  next  day,  for  this 
was  the  day  of  Agnes  and  Chris.  It  was  a  very 
marvelous  adventure,  the  affair  of  Agnes  and  Chris. 

Early  in  the  morning  Cuckoo  waked,  conscious  that 
she  had  just  heard  a  strange  noise.  It  was  very  early, 
but  her  little  room,  which  faced  the  east,  was  already 
filled  with  a  clear  light  of  extreme  purity  that  made  the 
white-washed  walls  look  luminous.  The  young  girl,  sit- 
ting up  in  bed  facing  the  window,  her  thin  shoulders  and 
arms  covered  by  an  ample  and  unadorned  nightgown, 
gazed  round  her.  What  could  .the  noise  have  been?  She 
was  not  afraid;  she  was  expectant;  of  what,  she  didn't 
know,  but  she  was  so  constituted  that  any  event  was  to 
her  preferable  to  monotony.  Her  little  clock  told  her 
that  it  was  only  half-past  four,  and  even  old  Esther 
Oughtenshaw,  she  knew,  would  not  be  up  until  six.  Yet 
someone  in  the  house  was  afoot.  When,  after  a  mo- 
ment's tense  waiting,  she  heard  a  sound  in  the  hall  down- 
stairs, she  rose,  and,  without  pausing  to  put  on  her  dress- 
ing-gown, went  quietly  down.  The  very  fact  of  being 
awake  at  such  an  hour  was  in  a  way  an  adventure,  and 
being  up  and  about  was  a  thing  not  to  be  described  in  its 
delightful  strangeness.  The  clock's  tick  seemed  heavy 
with  mystery,  and  the  pale  glow  coming  in  through  the 
fanlight  had  an  odd  effect  on  the  shabby  old  hall. 

Very  quickly  Cuckoo  went  down  the  passage  and 
opened  the  kitchen  door. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  disappointedly,  "it's  only  you!" 

115 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

But  to  Agnes  it  was  not  only  she.  She — Agnes — was 
at  that  moment  the  very  center  of  the  universe.  She 
started  violently,  the  tea-kettle  in  her  hand,  and  stood 
staring  at  the  intruder,  who,  whatever  Agnes  might  be 
doing,  certainly  had  no  business  in  the  kitchen  at  such  an 
hour. 

"Miss  Coocoo,"  she  faltered,  setting  the  kettle  on  the 
tiny  grate  in  the  middle  of  the  stove  and  drawing  back. 

Cuckoo  sat  down  in  a  high-backed  wooden  chair  and 
held  her  hands  up  to  the  delicate,  fleeting  fire  that  the 
elder  girl  had  made  with  a  few  twigs. 

"I  know  what  you  are  up  to,  Agnes,"  she  said  severely. 
"You  are  going  to  run  away  with  Chris  Greening." 

Agnes  turned  pale,  her  poor,  swollen  eyes  full  of  amaze- 
ment and  horror. 

"Oh,  Miss  Coocoo " 

"Yes,  you  are.  But,"  added  Cuckoo,  thoroughly  en- 
joying herself,  "you  mustn't." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  saying,  Miss  Coocoo — 
and  you'd  better  go  back  to  your  bed.  Your  aunties 
would  be  very  angry  if  they  knew  you  were  up  so  early." 

"My  aunties  would  be  very  angry  if  they  knew  what  a 
silly  thing  you  were  going  to  do.  And  the  kettle's  boiling. 
I'll  have  some  tea,  too,  Agnes." 

Agnes  made  the  tea  and  cut  some  bread  and  butter, 
presenting  it  to  her  young  mistress  in  spite  of  her  men- 
tal torment,  with  perfect  decency  on  a  tray. 

"I  was  up  on  the  Edge  last  night,"  Cuckoo  observed, 
her  eyes  glinting  in  the  strengthening  light.  "I  saw  you 
and  Chris,  I  saw  you  kiss  each  other." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  murmured  Agnes.  "I  told  him  he 
mustn't " 

"You  can't  have  told  him  very  hard.  Well,  so  now 
you're  going  to  sneak  out  and  marry  him!  Is  that  it?" 

The  elder  girl  stared  at  her.  There  was  something 

116 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

singularly  unyouthful  in  her  lack  of  tenderness  towards 
romance  and  Agnes  felt  it. 

"Ye  don't  understand,"  she  retorted  dreamily,  "you're 
too  young,  I  suppose.  But  it  isn't  sneaking.  It's — it's 
just  t'contrary  to  sneaking." 

"How  is  it?  What  do  you  mean?"  insisted  the  un- 
invited judge,  not  allowing  her  zest  to  interfere  with  her 
appetite.  "Cut  me  some  more  bread  and  butter,  please. 
What  d'you  mean?" 

The  loaf  pressed  to  her  shapely  breast,  the  knife  working 
its  way  through  the  bread,  Agnes  tried  to  explain  enough 
without  explaining  too  much. 

"He's  going  to  marry  me,"  she  murmured,  "he's  a 
good  fellow,  not  like  some,  and  we're  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

Cuckoo  frowned  impatiently. 

"Of  course  you're  going  to  be  married,"  she  returned, 
"I  know  that — or  you  think  you  are.  But  you  can't  be 
married  today,  you  know.  Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Maggie  Watlass's — her  mother  was  my  mother's 
cousin.  He's  told  her  and  she  will  let  me  stay  there. 
Only  you  mustn't  tell,  Miss  Coocoo,  or  my  uncle  and  my 
brother  will  come  there  and  make  a  fuss — promise  you 
won't  tell !" 

Agnes'  bonny  face,  restored  to  its  natural  color  by  the 
fire  and  the  tea  and  bread  and  butter,  was  turned  anx- 
iously to  Cuckoo. 

Cuckoo  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Chris  is  a  farm-laborer,  isn't  he?"  she  asked. 

"Aye.    He  works  for  William  Christy " 

"What  wages  does  he  get?" 

Agnes  faltered.  "Only  ten  shillings  a  week  yet,  and 
his  lodgings,  but  he's  a  good  worker,  an' " 

"Once  a  farm-laborer,  always  a  farm-laborer,"  inter* 
rupted  Cuckoo  trenchantly.  "Has  he  a  cottage?" 

117 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Agnes  set  down  her  cup.    "No-o,  Miss  Coocoo,  but " 

"Have  you  a  cottage?" 

"Oh,  Miss  Coocoo," 

"Be  quiet,  Agnes,  and  answer  what  I  ask  you."  (There 
is  no  use  in  trying  to  hide  the  horrid  fact  that  Miss  Coocoo 
was  thoroughly  enjoying,  and  as  thoroughly  appreciating, 
herself. ) 

"Has  Chris  any  money?  His  father  may  have  left 
him  some," — 

Agnes  was  silent.  She  knew,  and  she  knew  that  her 
inquisitor  knew,  that  poor  old  Anty  Greening  had  died 
in  the  workhouse  at  Warcop. 

"Perhaps,  then,"  Cuckoo  went  on,  putting  some  coals 
softly  on  the  waning  fire,  "you  have  the  money?  Just  a 
little,  say — fifty  pounds,  or  so,  to  furnish  a  cottage  with?" 

And  she  watched  Agnes,  utterly  down-hearted,  burst 
into  tears,  crying  unrestrainedly,  her  mouth  screwed  up 
like  a  child's. 

"Why  do  you  make  me  so  miserable?''  she  moaned. 
"You  like  to  hurt  me,  of  course  you  do!  It's  crool  of 
you,  Miss  Coocoo!  As  if  things  wasn't  bad  enough 
already " 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  don't  like  to,  Agnes. 
I  like  you,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  be  miserable  all  your 
life." 

"Miserable!"  wailed  the  other  girl,  searching  wildly  in 
her  pockets  for  a  handkerchief;  "if  you  knew  how  miser- 
able I've  been  ever  since " 

She  blew  her  nose  with  violence,  her  wet  eyes  suddenly 
filled  with  fear. 

"I  know  you  are  miserable,  I've  often  seen  you  crying. 
But  think  what  it  would  be  if  you  were  married!  You'd 
have  to  live  in  a  two-room  cottage,  you  couldn't  keep  a 
cow,  you'd  have  no  pigs  for  bacon,  Chris  would  be  away 
all  day  working,  and  you'd  have  to  work  so  hard  yourself 

118 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

that  you'd  be  old  and  ugly  in  a  year  and  then  Chris 
wouldn't  love  you  any  more." 

After  this  lurid  forecast  Cuckoo  rose  and  opened  the 
door,  letting  in  a  flood  of  warm  light — for  the  pale  sun 
had  been  gathering  gold  as  they  talked — and  a  great  gust 
of  earth  and  flower-scented  air. 

Agnes  was  silent  and  quite  still  for  a  moment,  and 
finally  Cuckoo  turned  from  the  view  and  looked  back  into 
the  kitchen,  in  whose  furthest  recesses  the  night  still 
seemed  to  linger. 

Agnes  stood  by  the  table,  her  hands  tight-clasped  before 
her,  her  face  suddenly  set  and  white. 

"Ah  know — Ah  know  all  them  things,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper.  "Me  an'  him  has  said  'em  often  and  often.  But 
Ah  can't  help  it,  Miss  Coocoo.  Ah  must  do  it.  He's  a 
good  lad,  Chris.  He'd  never  throw  it  in  my  face," 

"Throw  what  in  your  face?  He  loves  you,  doesn't 
he?" 

Agnes  was  only  twenty  herself,  but  at  that  moment  she 
felt  twenty  years  older  than  the  fifteen-year-old  girl  who 
didn't  understand. 

"A-aye,  he  looves  me  and  all — but,"  she  faltered  and 
twisted  her  brown  hands  as  if  she  were  trying  to  pull  the 
fingers  off.  "Ah,  Miss  Coocoo,"  she  burst  out  presently, 
"go  back  to  your  bed.  I  must  go — he's  waiting  for  me, 
poor  lad,  I  must  go.  I've  thought  and  thought,  and 
there's  nowt  else  to  be  done." 

And  then  came  Cuckoo's  great  moment. 

Going  slowly  to  the  other  girl,  she  reached  up  and  put 
her  hands  on  the  broad,  strong  shoulders  in  the  black 
jacket. 

"There  **  owt  to  be  done,"  she  declared,  speaking  pur- 
posely in  Agnes'  own  language;  "you  can  marry  Isaac 
Vosper." 

Agnes  started,  horror  in  her  eyes.  "Owd  Vosper?  Me 

119 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

marry  him?     No,  never,  rich  as  he  is,  not  even  if " 

She  broke  off  and  gathered  up  her  few  belongings  pre- 
paratory to  going. 

"Not  even  if  what?  He  is  rich,  very  rich.  He'd 
give  you  all  the  brass  you  want  and  servants,  and  you'd 
have  horses  and  cows  and  pigs.  Don't  be  an  idiot,  Agnes. 
Marry  him!" 

Chris  Greening,  his  silly  young  heart  full  of  rapture 
and  trouble,  was  waiting  for  his  sweetheart  at  the  may- 
tree  by  the  short  cut  leading  to  the  Middleton  Road,  on 
its  way  to  where,  at  Canty  Bridge,  lived  the  kind  Maggie 
^Watlass. 

The  poor  lad  had  begged  a  day  off  from  work  and  had 
come  to  meet  his  sweetheart  dressed  in  his  best;  in  his 
coat  he  had  stuck  a  bunch  of  ragged  white  pinks,  and  his 
curly  hair  was  oiled  and  smelt  of  cinnamon. 

He  was  a  comely  young  fellow,  even  in  his  unbeautifying 
Sunday  glory  of  attire,  and  the  pallor  that  underlay  his 
tan  gave  his  clear-cut  face  an  odd  look  of  having  been 
powdered. 

Agnes  had  promised  to  join  him  at  five.  At  half-past 
he  began  to  feel  anxious,  and  his  round  blue  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  path  as  it  rose  towards  Roseroofs.  He  never 
knew  how  near  he  had  come  that  morning  to  a  life  of 
miserable  grinding  poverty  with  the  girl  he  honestly 
loved ;  by  how  small  a  margin  he  missed  a  year  of  rapture 
and  a  later  life  out  of  which  the  glow  of  romance  had 
died.  His  was  a  predicament  as  old  as  the  world  itself; 
either  way  he  stood  to  win  and  to  lose  and  he  lost  and 
won. 

For,  just  as  she  reached  the  door  to  go  to  him,  Agnes 
stood  still,  struck  dumb  and  motionless  with  terror.  Some- 
one was  coming  downstairs !  And  she  knew  that  someone 
could  only  be  her  aunt,  Esther  Oughtenshaw. 

120 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

As  she  stood,  trembling  with  terror,  Cuckoo,  in  the 
quick  transition  of  her  position  from  one  of  defeat  to  one 
of  victory,  nimble-witted  and  triumphant,  opened  the 
cellar-door,  whispering,  "I'll  get  your  print  frock  and 
apron  for  you" — closed  the  door,  and  met  the  unsuspi- 
cious Esther  Oughtenshaw  with  a  beaming  smile. 

"I  couldn't  sleep,  Esther,  so  I  waked  Agnes  and  had 

her  make  me  some  tea.  She's  gone  to  dress  now " 

And  in  five  minutes  she  had  flown  to  poor  Agnes'  bare, 
dismantled  little  room,  found  her  ordinary  morning  clothes 
and  thrown  them  to  her  through  the  cellar  window  under 
the  dining-room. 

Poor  Chris,  at  six  o'clock,  turned  sorrowfully  back  and 
went  to  his  work  as  usual,  his  heart  aching  as  if  it  had 
never  held  a  doubt. 

All  he  remembered  was  that  he  loved  Agnes,  and  that, 
though  he  was,  as  he  as  well  as  she  innocently  expressed 
it,  willing  to  marry  her,  she  had  played  him  false.  On  his 
way  back  to  the  farm  he  passed  along  the  path  leading 
to  the  Green  Bench,  and  here,  very  thoughtful,  hunched 
up,  her  arms  clasping  her  raised  knees,  was  Cuckoo. 

"Fine  morning,  Miss  Coocoo,"  Greening  said  politely 
as  he  passed. 

"Aye.  Looks  like  rain,  though,"  she  returned,  as 
mechanically.  Then,  as  he  turned  the  corner,  she  called 
him.  "Chris!" 

"A-aye,  Miss  Coocoo?" 

His  hurt  love  and  pride  had  imprinted  themselves  clearly 
in  his  simple  face,  and  Cuckoo  was  sorry  for  him. 

"Agnes — didn't  come,  Chris,"  she  said,  gently. 

"N— o.     She  didn't  coom," 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  Chris,  and  for  her." 

But  Chris  didn't  care  a  rush  whether  Miss  Cuckoo  was 
aorry  for  him  or  not.  He  stared  at  her  dully. 

121 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"It's  better  to  tell  you  at  once,  Chris.  She  is  not 
going  to  marry  you.  It  would  be  very  foolish  for  you 
both.  You  would  be  so  miserably  poor." 

Chris  scratched  his  head.  This  was  no  new  idea  to 
him  and  had  cost  him  much  thought,  but  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  disregard  it,  and  now,  knowing  that  Agnes 
had  decided  not  to  disregard  it,  a  salutary  sensation  of 
indignation  came  into  his  mind.  He  expressed  himself 
with  terseness  and  vigor,  and  leaving  Cuckoo  with  a  very 
roughly-worded  message  for  the  faithless  Agnes,  went 
his  way. 

After  an  hour's  hard  thinking  and  a  short  visit  to  the 
house,  for  the  purpose  of  breakfasting — for  she  found 
that  matrimonial  advice  had  produced  in  her  a  great  hun- 
ger— Cuckoo  went  out  and,  after  an  interval  of  two  hours, 
arrived  in  visibly  high  feather  at  the  Vicarage. 

When  she  had  told  the  whole  story,  vividly  detailed, 
to  the  delighted  Rachel,  she  stopped  and  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"So  he  said,"  she  added  after  a  moment,  "that  he  was 
very  much  obliged  to  me  and  would  step  round  this  even- 
ing. That  means,  of  course,  that  he's  going  to  ask  her 
again.  And  she's  promised  me  to  say  yes.  Isn't  it 
splendid?" 

Rachel  nodded  thoughtfully.    "Yes." 

"It  really  is  a  jolly  old  farm,  you  know,  Ray,  and  he 
wasn't  so  'very  awful.  What  a  good  thing  I  heard  her  this 
morning!  I  only  hope,"  she  went  on,  lying  back  on  the 
hillside,  and  staring  up  at  the  sky,  "that  she  won't  back 
out." 

Rachel  glanced  at  her.  "No  (danger  of  that,"  she  ob- 
served dryly,  and  with  an  air  of  wisdom  that  did  not 
escape  Cuckoo,  "she'll  be  jolly  glad  to  be  married." 

Cuckoo  chewed  the  end  of  a  piece  of  grass.  "Not  so 
sure.  You  see,  she  really  does  care  for  Chris.  It'll  take 

122 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

her  some  time  to  be  able  to  make  up  Her  mind  to  marry 
old  Vosper.  It  would  even  me,  if  I  had  a — a  Chris  and  a 
Vosper.  You  know  what  I  mean." 

Rachel  nodded.  "You're  a  funny  kid,  Nicky,"  she  de- 
clared, in  an  unbearably  grown-up  manner. 

Just  then  George  appeared,  wandering  along  in  his 
desultory  way,  his  cap  in  one  pocket,  a  book  in  another. 
He  was  singing  softly  in  what  Cuckoo  called  his  baby 
voice,  for  though  he  was  nineteen,  his  voice  had  never 
cracked,  but  was  slowly  mellowing  into  a  deep  tenor,  a 
process  which  still,  at  times,  allowed  him,  when  he  sang 
very  softly,  to  produce  a  few  bars,  in  a  kind  of  soprano 
as  beautiful  as  a  child's. 

"I  say,  George,"  Rachel  called,  as  he  was  about  to 
pass  without  seeing  them,  "come  and  hear  what  Cuckoo's 
been  up  to," 

The  lad  obeyed,  sitting  by  them.  "What  has  she  been 
up  to?"  he  asked,  looking  on  Rachel  with  the  content 
the  sight  of  her  smooth  beauty  never  failed  to  produce  in 
him. 

"She's  been  match-making." 

"Match-making  ?" 

"Yes.  She's  arranged  a  marriage,"  Rachel  went  on 
gaily,  bridling  a  little  under  his  eyes,  "between  Agnes, 
their  maid — and  a  Mr.  Vosper." 

George  started.  "Vosper?  Old  Ike?  Nonsense, 
Rachel." 

"It's  quite  true.    Isn't  it,  Nicky?" 

Cuckoo  nodded. 

"But "     George's  pale  brows  knotted  nervously, 

"Agnes  is — engaged  to — another  man.  At  least  I  think 
so, " 

Cuckoo  sat  up.  "She  was.  Now  she  isn't.  I  stopped! 
her  running  away  with  that  silly  Chris  Greening.  Tenj 
shillings  a  week  they'd  have  had  to  live  on!" 

123 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"But,  Cuckoo "  the  boy  broke  off,  his  pale  face 

flushed.  "I — I  wish  you  hadn't.  They — they  really  were 
engaged.  Seriously.  Very  seriously.  Why  did  you 
interfere?" 

"Don't  be  stupid,  George.  How  are  two  people  to  live 
on  ten  shillings  a  week?  Besides,"  she  added  grown-up- 
edly,  "they'd  be  sure  to  have  a  lot  of  babies.  Those  people 
always  do." 

George   rose.      "Good-bye,"   he   said,    "I'll— I'll   just 

rrrv— ^— " 

When  he  had  gone,  Rachel  gave  a  meaning  giggle. 

"You  really  are  a  baby,  Nicky,"  she  exclaimed.  "Poor 
George  nearly  burst  with  embarrassment." 

"Nonsense!    Why  should  George  be  embarrassed?" 

And  then  Rachel  told  her,  told  her  as  some  girls  of  her 
age  do  tell  such  sordid,  piteous  little  tragedies,  with  a 
gloating  and  lingering  enjoyment. 

To  do  Cuckoo  justice,  she  derived  no  pleasure  from  the 
tale.  She  listened  coldly,  a  little  ashamed  of  her  own 
ignorance,  but  the  thing  that  remained  in  her  mind  as  the 
vital  part  of  the  whole  business  was  still  old  Isaac  Vesper's 
brass. 

"He's  not  a  bad  old  thing,"  she  declared,  "and  he's 
really  very  rich  for  a  farmer,  so  at  least  It  can  be  well 
looked  after  if  she  marries  him." 

"But  she  won't  dare  tell  him,"  elucidated  Rachel. 
"Lots  of  girls  kill  theirs,  rather  than  be  found  out." 

"Bosh!  Of  course  she'll  tell  him,  and  no  doubt  he'll 
be  glad  to  have  one  ready-made,  so  to  speak.  An  old 
man  like  him!" 

But  she  was  very  angry  when,  at  this  remarkable  prog- 
nostication, the  wise  Rachel  burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter. 


CHAPTER  X 

EVERY  Christmas  there  arrived  at  Roseroofs  a  big 
box  of  gifts  from  Lady  Fabricius.  The  greater 
part  of  these  offerings  being  in  the  form  of  clothes, 
they  were  always  sent  in  an  odd  trunk  of  her  ladyship's, 
and  to  Cuckoo  those  trunks  were  things  of  romance  and 
mystery. 

For  her  Aunt  Marcia  had  always  been,  in  a  common- 
place way,  a  great  traveler,  and  these  old  black  leather 
boxes  with  "M.  A.  F."  painted  in  large  white  letters  on 
them,  were  covered  with  old  labels,  and,  moreover,  travel- 
ing boxes  are  intrinsically  beautiful  and  romantic  things. 
To  Lucerne,  Lady  Fabricius  had  been,  Hotel  National; 
to  Venice,  "Danieli's" ;  to  Rome,  the  "Grand" ;  to  Munich, 
the  "Continental";  to  Paris,  Hotel  Bristol;  to  Aix-les- 
Bains,  Hotel  de  1'Europe;  to  Homburg,  Hotel  Victoria; 
to  Sorrento,  "Tramontana's" ;  and  so  on  and  so  on  in  an 
apparently  endless  trail  all  over  the  continent  of  Europe. 

And  for  Cuckoo,  in  whose  blood  was,  as  her  father  had 
said,  the  fatal  roving  drop,  the  torn,  disfigured  labels 
had  a  most  potent  charm.  Sometimes  one  label  hid  an- 
other and  had  to  be  peeled  off  with  moisture  and  delicacy, 
to  discover  what  was  under  it;  sometimes  only  a  red  or 
yellow  scrap  remained,  and  it  was  a  fascinating  puzzle  to 
think  over  all  the  towns  ending  in,  say,  "ig"  or  "en,"  and 
decide  what  the  missing  letters  were.  Often  one's  dreams 
of  places  are  better  than  the  places  themselves,  and,  a 
large  old  map  of  Europe  on  the  floor  beside  her,  Cuckoo 
spent  many  hours  travelling  in  imagination  to  all  the 
cities  to  which  the  shabby  box  beside  her  had  had  the 

125 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

privilege  of  going.  One  cold  December  evening  when  she 
was  eighteen,  the  young  girl  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the 
study  engrossed  in  this  entrancing  make-believe,  a  new 
trunk  having  just  arrived. 

It  was  half-past  five,  tea  was  over  and  the  big,  old 
moderator  lamp  was  lit.  In  the  old-fashioned,  black- 
leaded  grate  the  fire  blazed  cozily,  and  Cuckoo,  on  the 
floor,  the  lamp  drawn  near  the  edge  of  the  table,  had  just, 
in  her  mind,  arrived  in  Paris  at  a  new  hotel  called  the 
"Ritz."  (Formerly  she  had  put  up,  in  these  visits,  at 
"Meurice's.")  Her  feet  under  her,  her  hands — still  thin 
and  small  and  dusky — clasped  on  her  lap,  the  girl  was 
busy  with  her  dream-visit  to  Paris.  She  had  not  been 
there  since  her  babyhood;  she  had  never  been  to  London 
since  her  father  brought  her  through  it  on  her  way  to 
Roseroofs,  on  which  occasion  he  had  given  her  to  believe 
she  had  distinguished  herself  by  being  sick  in  the  cab  that 
brought  her  from  the  station  to  the  hotel;  she  had  been 
nowhere  except  into  York  to  see  a  dentist,  and  once,  after 
measles,  to  Whitby.  She  had,  in  accordance  with  her 
father's  wishes,  lived  entirely  at  Roseroofs. 

But  the  drop  was  in  her  blood,  and  her  hour-long  poring 
over  maps  had  caused  much  anxiety,  though  but  little 
discussion,  to  her  aunts.  An  old  Continental  Bradshaw 
that  had  been  her  father's  was  also  one  of  her  most  cher- 
ished treasures  and  this  lay  on  the  floor  by  her  now,  for, 
to  her  surprise,  a  Budapest  hotel  label  on  the  trunk  had 
informed  her  that  her  aunt  had  been  extending  her  travels 
that  much  out  of  the  beaten  track,  and  she  had  in  imagi- 
nation been  journeying  from  Buda  to  Paris  via  Vienna  and 
Frankfort,  in  strict  accordance  with  the  train-service  of 
fifteen  years  before. 

The  firelight  and  lamplight  falling  full  on  her  showed 
her  to  have  changed  as  little  since  the  occasion  of  Rachel 
Poole's  first  visit  to  the  dale,  as  would  be  possible  for 

126 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

any  girl  between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  eighteen.  She 
was  still  small  and  thin  and  undeveloped,  and  her  thick, 
black  hair,  though  now  neatly  packed  in  plaits  tight  to 
her  little  head,  still  looked  too  heavy  for  her  thin  neck 
to  carry. 

Her  lower  jaw  distinctly  jutted,  and  her  dream-filled 
eyes  were  dull  with  intentness.  Her  bbdy  sat  there  on 
the  shabby  rug  in  the  study,  waiting  for  Aunt  Effie  to 
come  in  and  open  the  box,  but  her  young  mind  had  gone 
forth  in  search  of  adventure.  She  had  never  been  told 
that  she  was  to  go  to  London  to  her  unknown  aunt.  So 
far  as  she  actually  knew,  she  was  to  stay  on  for  ever  at 
Roseroofs.  But  with  no  discussion  of  the  subject,  even 
mental,  she  knew  that  she  should  not  be  always  at  Rose- 
roofs.  She  knew  it  just  as  she  had  known  that  she  would 
one  day  own  beautiful  things  like  Rachel's.  Miss  Effie 
and  Miss  Flora  had  once  or  twice  touched,  very  lightly,  to 
each  other,  on  her  amazing  contentment  in  her  quiet  life. 

"Of  course,"  Miss  Flora  said,  "there  is  no  place  like 
the  dale,  but  at  her  age,  Effie,  one  shouldn't  have  won- 
dered if " 

Miss  Effie,  on  whose  granite  exterior  time  seemed  to 
make  no  more  effect  than  it  did  on  the  walls  of  their 
house,  nodded.  "It  is  a  pleasant  surprise  to  me,  Flora,' 
that  she  should  be  so  satisfied.  I  had  anticipated  rest- 
lessness and  discontent  in  her,  but  then  you'll  say  that 
I  am  naturally  suspicious." 

Miss  Flora,  whom  the  passing  years  were  dimming  and 
blurring  a  little  in  everything  but  her  springing,  jocund 
carriage,  looked  at  her  sister  with  a  sweet,  peculiar  little 
smile.  She  had  said  nothing  of  the  kind  but  she  did  not 
deny  the  imputed  charge,  and  Miss  Effie  went  on,  "I  must 
admit  too,  Flora,  that  the  life  would  not  have  suited  me. 
But  then  I  was  always  so  full  of  energy." 

The  next  time  a  foreign  letter  arrived  for  Cuckoo  from 

127 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Rachel,  the  two  old  ladies  eyed  her  cautiously  as  slie 
read  it. 

"They're  at  Bellagio,"  the  girl  told  them,  "isn't  it 
delightful?" 

And  how  could  they  know  that  her  lack  of  envy  sprang 
from  her  calm  certainty  that  before  long  her  own  time 
for  Bellagio  would  come? 

Bellagio  and  Buda,  Paris,  Seville  and  Simla.  These 
places  would  be  hers  as  naturally  as  her  twentieth  year 
or  her  first  gray  hair.  There  was  plenty  of  time.  It 
may  be  said  that  most  young  creatures  naturally  expect 
all  the  good  things  of  the  world  to  come  their  way  and 
this,  of  course,  is  true.  It  is  one  of  God's  blessings  that 
it  is  true.  But  Cuckoo  was  in  one  way,  if  not  in  this, 
an  exception  to  other  maidens.  She  valued  her  own 
youth.  Every  day,  as  it  came,  was  to  her  a  delightful 
and  good  thing;  she  had  no  desire  to  hurry  events. 

So,  that  evening,  as  she  sat  on  the  floor  by  the  trunk, 
she  was  perfectly  happy.  Roseroofs,  as  her  thoughts 
came  back  to  it  from  Hungary,  was  an  excellent  perch, 
but  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  regard  it  as  a  nest. 

Presently  her  thoughts  settled  like  a  swarm  of  friendly 
bees  on  George  Loxley,  for  the  trunk  had  been  to  St. 
Moritz,  and  at  St.  Moritz  George  had  spent  part  of  the 
last  summer. 

Now  the  poor  dear  was  back  in  Glasgow,  in  a  bank,  of 
all  places  in  the  world  for  him,  although  Mr.  Fleming, 
who  was  the  president  of  the  bank,  was  an  old  friend  of 
the  Vicar's  and  very  fond  of  the  young  man. 

Cuckoo  had  not  seen  George  for  eighteen  months,  and 
she  wondered  how  he  was  getting  on.  She  remembered 
the  day  when  she  had  found  him  lying  in  the  bracken, 
his  face  hidden,  the  day  after  the  news  came  that  some- 
thing had  happened  whereby  his  grandfather's  income  was 
reduced  by  one  half. 

128 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

His  paint-box — for  he  had  told  the  girl  of  his  year- 
long secret  of  trying  to  paint  and  confided  to  her  his 
dream  of  one  day  being  able  to  paint  the  moorland — 
lay  beside  him,  and  young  man  though  he  was,  she  thought 
his  eyes  were  not  quite  dry. 

She  had  sat  silently  by  him,  not  knowing  what  to  say 
and  wondering  why  he  so  horribly  minded  the  prospect 
of  leaving  the  dale. 

But  he  had  minded,  and  only  she  knew,  when  Mr.  Flem- 
ing's offer  to  take  him  into  the  bank  came,  how  bitterly 
he  dreaded  the  prospect  of  it. 

"George  seems  quite  pleased,  in  his  quiet  way,"  the 
Vicar  told  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora.  "Of  course,  any 
young  man  would  enjoy  a  little  town  life,"  and  Miss  Effie 
agreed  with  him. 

So  George  had  gone,  and,  as  his  first  Christmas  holiday 
had  been  spent  at  Harrogate  where  his  grandfather  was 
taking  a  cure,  and  the  summer  before  he  had  gone  to 
Switzerland  with  Paul  Fleming,  his  chief's  delicate  son, 
he  had  not  been  back  to  the  dale  since. 

But  now  he  was  coming,  and  Cuckoo,  spurred  by  the 
natural  villainy  of  her  eighteen  years  and  much  coaching 
by  the  experienced  Rachel,  had  planned  a  fine  holiday 
for  him.  George  was  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  It  was 
not  that  she  felt  drawn  towards  the  young  man  other 
than  as  to  a  very  old  friend,  but  there  was  a  new  frock 
for  her  in  the  unopened  trunk,  she  was  eighteen,  and  it 
behooved  her  to  test  her  powers,  and  George  was  the  only 
young  man  she  knew. 

Rachel,  the  summer  before,  had  spent  three  weeks  at 
Roseroofs,  having,  to  Aunt  Effie's  indignation  and  Aunt 
Flora's  gentle  amusement,  invited  herself,  and  Rachel,  now 
a  young  woman  in  her  second  social  year,  was  full  of 
wisdom  and  guile. 

"It's  the  greatest  fun,"  she  said,  "and  as  easy  as  any- 

129 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Ihing.  They're  all  exactly  alike,  really,  and  you  just 
have  to  keep  them  wondering.  The  thing  is  to  keep  'em 
on  the  jump.  You  know — nice  to  them  one  day  and 
hardly  recognize  them  the  next.  And  always,"  she  added, 
with  a  touch  of  real  wisdom  in  the  midst  of  all  her  rub- 
bish, "be  interested  in  their  things.  Horses,  or  golf,  or 
Japanese  prints,  or  whatever  it  is  they  like." 

"But  what,"  inquired  Miss  Blundell,  who  was  unusually 
well  acquainted  with  herself,  "about  the  things  I  like? 
iWhy  shouldn't  they  be  interested  in  them?" 

"They  will,"  Rachel  answered,  laughing,  "after  a  bit. 
I  meant  just  at  first,  you  know." 

Rachel  had  developed  into  a  large,  rather  Junoesque 
young  woman,  with  an  occasional  fleeting  Phryne-like 
gleam  in  her  prominent  eyes.  Abnormally  lazy  physically 
and  mentally,  sentimental,  sensual,  and  unintelligent,  she 
had  a  decided  charm  for  some  men  and  was  neither  un- 
aware nor  ashamed  of  its  nature. 

She  was,  among  much  affectation  and  many  poses, 
genuinely  fond  of  Cuckoo,  and  her  advice  as  to  the  en- 
slavement of  George  was  quite  kindly  meant.  "It's  a 
pity  there  aren't  any  other  men  here,"  she  said,  simply; 
"but  he'll  be  better  than  no  one." 

So  it  was  decided  that  George's  subjugation  should  be 
accomplished  at  Christmas,  and  Cuckoo  had  laid  her  plans 
in  her  own  way,  not  altogether  conforming  to  her  friend's 
system. 

A  stranger,  no  doubt,  would  have  been  more  fun,  but 
then  it  was  to  be  said  for  George  that  he  would  be  on 
the  spot,  so  George  it  should  be.  George  would  reach  the 
Vicarage  the  next  morning,  and  at  seven  the  Vicar  and 
he  would  be  at  Roseroofs,  since,  for  more  years  than 
Cuckoo  could  remember,  they  had  dined  with  the  Misses 
Plues  on  Christmas  Eve. 

The  new  frock,  Cuckoo  knew,  would  be  white,  but  it 

130 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

would  be  a  beauty,  and  she  had  secretly  sent  Aunt  Marcia 
a  new  set  of  measurements,  so  it  was  sure  to  be  long 
enough  and,  what  was  even  more  vital,  tight  enough  in  the 
waist.  She  wished  Aunt  Effie  would  come  in. 

And  then  she  heard  rapid  footsteps  on  the  gravel  path 
and  the  opening  of  the  front  door. 

"Oh,  you're  all  snowy,  Aunt  Effie,"  the  girl  exclaimed, 
as  the  old  woman  put  her  parcels  on  the  hall  table,  "isn't 
it  awfulty  cold?"  Aunt  Effie  was  nipped  and  blue,  but 
she  declared  that  the  storm  was  no  more  than  what  was 
seasonable. 

She  had,  she  pursued,  as  Cuckoo  peeled  off  her  soaking 
galoshes  and  Miss  Flora  carried  her  cloak  to  the  kitchen 
to  be  dried,  got  everything  they  needed  except  the  rum. 
"Not  a  drop  of  rum  to  be  had  in  the  whole  village." 

"Did  you,"  Cuckoo  asked,  with  grave  slyness,  "try  both 
shops  ?" 

"You  always  laugh  at  Warcop,  Cuckoo,"  murmured 
Miss  Flora,  reproval  in  her  voice,  "and  yet  you've  only 
been  once  to  York." 

"You  forget  my  travels — my  very  extensive  travels — 
in  Spain  and  France,"  the  girl  replied,  rising. 

"Nonsense,  child,"  Miss  Effie's  voice  was  sharp.  "You 
can't  remember  when  you  were  four." 

Cuckoo  stood,  her  hands  stuck  into  her  belt  in  a  way 
her  aunts  disapproved,  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  floor. 
"Of  course  I  can't  remember,  Aunt  Effie,"  she  returned 
slowly,  in  her  most  guttural  voice,  "but  somehow  it  isn't 
quite  the  same  as  if  I  had  never  been  anywhere.  I  can't 
quite  explain,  but — somehow  I  seem  to  know  how  Paris 
feels  and  the  South.  I  alwa}rs  expect  the  sun  to  go  on 
growing  hotter  and  hotter,  and — it  doesn't,  you  know. 
Also,  I'm  sure  I  know  how  orange  blossoms  smell,  though 
there  aren't  any  here," 

Miss  Effie  gave  a  little  snort  that  meant  a  conscientious 

131 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

attempt  to  suffer  fools  patiently,  and  marched  into  the 
study.  "We  may  as  well  open  the  box,"  she  said,  "before 
supper," 

Esther  Oughtenshaw  was  called  from  the  kitchen  to 
loosen  the  great  strap  with  the  travel-rusted  buckle — 
"Budapest  and  Paris  rain,"  Cuckoo  reflected,  watch- 
ing her,  and  then  the  key  was  produced  and  the  box 
opened. 

On  the  top  tray,  as  usual,  lay  several  handsome,  very 
slightly  worn  gowns  of  velvet  and  silk  and  cashmere,  gowns 
of  Lady  Fabricius'  sent  for  her  sisters,  and  by  Cuckoo 
irreverently  called  Tads. 

After  a  very  cursory  examination  of  these  offerings, 
the  tray  was  lifted  out  and  put  on  the  floor.  The  next 
tray  (the  whole  box  smelt  faintly  of  orris-root  and  cam- 
phor) was  the  one,  for  in  it  lay,  in  all  its  glory,  Cuckoo's 
Christmas  frock. 

Miss  Flora,  as  the  three  ladies  bent  over  it  and  Miss 
Effie  removed  the  tissue  paper  that  covered  it,  gave  a 
little  scream  of  ecstasy. 

"Oh,  Effie,"  she  cried,  her  eyes  rolling  recklessly,  "it's 
crepe-de-Chine !" 

It  was.  And  when  Miss  EfBe  lifted  it  in  an  almost  sac- 
ramental manner  and  laid  it  on  the  sofa,  it  was  seen  to  be 
very  long.  "Much  longer  than  ever  before,"  Miss  Effie 
declared  with  disapproval,  "although  you  haven't  grown 
since  last  year,  Nicoleta." 

Nicoleta  did  not  reply,  and  Miss  Effie,  after  taking  the 
tissue  paper  out  of  the  sleeves,  continued,  this  time  in 
a  voice  full  of  horror,  "Flora — look  at  the  waist-belt !" 

Miss  Flora,  palpitating,  looked,  as  Miss  Effie  raised  the 
garment,  a  finger  hooked  gingerly  in  either  of  the  shoul- 
ders, the  heavily  ribbed  silk  inside  the  belt  hanging  down. 
"Look  at  it !" 

Miss  Flora  rounded  the  belt  with  her  hands.  "She'll 

132 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

never  be  able  to  get  it  on,"  she  agreed.  "Sarah  Christie 
will  have  to  let  it  out," 

Cuckoo  didn't  smile.  "I  think,"  she  said  gravely,  "that 
it  will  be  all  right,  Aunt  Flora." 

She  did  not  add  that  the  revised  measurements  sent 
by  her  to  Lady  Fabricius  had  included  a  waist  measure 
fully  four  inches  smaller  than  her  previous  one.  What 
would  have  been  the  use  of  mentioning  it?  She  meant  at 
any  price  to  make  her  waist  fit  the  frock  and  there  was 
an  end  to  it! 

The  ladies  then  turned  their  attention  to  the  rest  of 
the  contents  of  the  trunk.  There  was  a  pair  of  pointed, 
narrow,  patent  leather  shoes  with  high  heels,  in  each  of 
which  lay  rolled  a  filmy  black  silk  stocking — "Marcia 
has  evidently  forgotten,"  Miss  Effie  decided,  examining 
the  stockings,  "the  roughness  of  our  roads.  These  things 
will  be  worn  out  at  once " 

But  Miss  Flora  protested.  "Oh,  Effie,  she  won't  wear 
them  for  long  walks !  Only  for  best.  She  can  wear  them 
tomorrow  when  the  Vicar  comes.  He  will  like  to  see  her 
looking  so  nice !" 

Busy  though  she  was,  investigating  the  mysteries  of 
her  frock,  Cuckoo  turned  and  kissed  her  Aunt  Flora  at 
this  speech,  and  Miss  Flora  blushed,  the  caress  was  so 
unusual. 

There  were  other  gifts,  a  soft  woolly  shawl  apiece  for 
the  ladies,  a  crimson  woollen  jersey  for  Esther  Oughten- 
shaw,  a  dress  length  for  Nellie,  Agnes'  successor,  a  fine 
collection  of  new  novels  that  her  sisters  knew  Lady 
Fabricius  had  bought  and  read  and  not  cared  to  keep ; 
there  was  a  basket  with  a  big  pineapple  in  it,  and  a  bottle 
apiece  of  preserved  peaches  and  candied  cherries  (the 
latter  for  the  Vicar),  and  there  were  beautiful  new  silk 
petticoats,  one  gray  and  one  dark  blue,  stiff  with  richness 
and  pipings,  for  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora.  And  when 

133 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

all  these  treasures  had  been  inspected,  Miss  Effie  found, 
amongst  the  packing  paper,  a  long  parcel,  addressed  in 
a  strange  hand:  "For  my  Cousin  Cuckoo,  from  Bertie." 

Cuckoo  opened  the  parcel  to  find,  in  a  robin's-egg  blue 
satin  box,  a  beautiful  ostrich  feather  fan  mounted  in  pale 
tortoise-shell. 

"Bertie!  Dear  me,  how  charming,  how  kind  of  him," 
murmured  Miss  Flora.  "What  a  kind  thought!" 

Miss  Effie  nodded  grimly.  "The  first  time  he  has  ever 
remembered  the  existence  of  any  one  of  us." 

"He  could  hardly  have  remembered  us,"  came  in  gentle 
protest  from  Miss  Flora,  "considering  that  he  never 
saw  us." 

Cuckoo  said  nothing.  She  stood  in  the  firelight,  opening 
and  shutting  her  fan  with  a  feeling  of  luxury  hitherto 
unrealized  by  her.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  first  object  of 
utter,  glorious,  useless  extravagance  that  she  had  ever 
owned,  and  silently,  dreamily,  and  sensuously  she  was 
enjoying  it. 

All  the  evening  she  kept  the  fan  near  her.  It  was  to 
her  not  only  a  very  beautiful  and  enchanting  fan,  it  seemed 
in  some  way  to  be  a  symbol.  Why  should  her  unknown 
Cousin  Hubert  Fabricius  send  her,  he  who  had  never  in 
all  his  life  seen  her,  such  a  fan?  A  fan  of  glorious  white 
feathers  is  a  full-dress  thing ;  a  thing  no  one  could  expect 
to  be  used  in  a  small,  lonely  house  on  a  remote  hillside. 
Why  had  Bertie,  if  he  wished  to  send  her  a  gift,  not  chosen 
one  of  the  things  usually  considered  appropriate  to  young 
girls  in  her  circumstances?  Books,  or  a  muff,  or  even  a 
little  brooch  such  as  girls  can  wear  anywhere? 

This  great  flamboyant  thing  could  never  be  used  in 
Wiskedale.  It  could  be  carried  only — Cuckoo  held  her 
breath  in  her  corner  of  the  dining-room,  as  her  aunts 
played  their  game  of  bezique  by  the  fire — only  at  balls. 
And  when  was  there  to  be  a  ball  in  Wiskedale? 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

She  was,  as  she  sat  there,  the  fan  on  her  lap,  very 
near  the  solution  of  the  mystery,  very  near  discovering 
the  secret  that  had  been  kept  so  faithfully  by  the  two 
old  ladies,  the  fact  that  she  was  to  go  to  London,  that 
very  coming  May,  to  be  presented  and  to  go  to  balls. 

So  nearly  had  Bertie  Fabricius'  careless  impulse  been 
to  letting  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  that  Cuckoo,  sitting 
there  in  the  quiet  room,  was  almost  on  the  point  of  the 
great  discovery,  but  just  as  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora's 
rubber  ended  by  a  triumphant  sequence  on  Miss  Flora's 
part,  something  happened,  and  in  five  minutes  more  the 
fan  and  all  its  mysteries  were  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CUCKOO  and  George  Loxley  had  been  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  brother  and  sister  since  she  was  four 
and  he  nine.     They  had  played  together,  eaten 
together,  even  tried,  at  one  period,  to  learn  together. 

And  as  they  grew  older,  though  their  intimacy  had 
waned,  it  was  but  the  waning  of  an  intimacy  between  a 
boy  who  was  unusually  thoughtful  and  studious  and  a 
little  sister  whose  babyish  interests  he  was  outgrowing. 
They  had  remained  just  as  fond  of  each  other  as  ever, 
but  their  ways  had  inevitably  divided.  George's  shy  pas- 
sion for  painting  had  helped  to  set  them  apart,  for 
Cuckoo's  chatter  disturbed  him  at  his  work,  and  his  sitting 
still  for  hours  set  her  restlessness  raging. 

And  despite  the  fact  that  George  remained,  as  time 
went  on,  the  only  youth  and  young  man  in  the  country- 
side, it  never  occurred  to  Cuckoo  to  regard  him  as  a 
possible  lover  or  husband.  He  was,  as  he  had  always  been, 
just  George. 

Finally  when,  goaded  by  Rachel  and  her  stories,  Cuckoo 
decided  that  someone  must  fall  in  love  with  her,  she  de- 
cided on  George  as  her  victim  with  a  feeling  of  regret, 
not  because  George  might  possibly  suffer,  but  because  he 
was  only  just  George! 

A  new  young  man  would  have  been  much  more  amus- 
ing, but — there  was  no  new  young  man. 

So  George  was  to  love  her  and  to  suffer  damnably — 
her  own  word.  His  was  to  be  a  world-shaking  passion, 
but  she  was  to  remain  merely  the  detached  and  enter- 
tained object  of  his  flame.  The  flame  was  not  to  have 

136 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

the  power  even  to  scorch  her  asbestos  personality.  Rachel 
had  had  one  lover  whose  mind  had  on  one  occasion  gone 
to  the  length  of  turning  to  thoughts  of  suicide.  She  had 
had  another  who  had  chucked  up  a  perfectly  ripping  job 
in  Egypt  to  return  to  London  to  the  devastating  presence 
of  his  Beloved. 

Therefore  it  followed  naturally  that  Cuckoo  might 
eventually  have  to  wrench  from  George's  frenzied  hand 
the  pistol  with  which  he  wished  to  put  an  end  to  his 
miserable  life. 

Knowing  the  young  man  as  she  did,  Cuckoo  rather 
doubted  that  this  vision  would  ever  be  fulfilled — it  seemed, 
considering  George's  gentleness,  almost  too  good  to  be 
true — however,  buttressed  by  Rachel's  tales,  she  hoped  for 
the  best. 

It  would  be  great  fun  to  see  George  cry,  anyway,  and 
that  did  not  seem  so  utterly  beyond  the  borders  of  pos- 
sibility. 

She  had  spent  many  hours  over  this  pleasant  dream  of 
havoc  and  despair,  and  when,  as  she  sat  thinking  of  her 
fan,  she  heard  George's  voice  in  the  hall,  it  flashed  into 
her  mind  as  a  beautiful  whole.  She  had  not  expected 
him  till  the  next  day,  but  he  was  here,  and  she  would 
begin  at  once  to  enthral  him.  Her  heart  beat  as  she  rose, 
and  waited  for  the  trial  to  begin. 

"Oh,  Master  George,"  Esther  Oughtenshaw  was  saying 
— and  then  the  door  opened  and  he  came  in. 

He  kissed  Aunt  Effie  and  Aunt  Flora — he  had  always 
called  them  Aunt — and  then  turned  to  Cuckoo. 

"Hello,  Kiddy,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  and  shaking 
her  hand. 

Cuckoo  drew  a  deep  breath  that  hurt  her.  "How  do 
you  do,  George,"  she  faltered.  "I — I  didn't  know  you 
had  a  mustache.  .  .  ." 

Christmas  Day,  that  year  in  Wiskedale,  outdid  itself 

137 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

in  the  matter  of  weather.  It  was  snowy  but  clear;  cold 
but  wind-still ;  glittering  but  not  dazzling.  It  was,  Cuckoo 
reflected  during  the  sermon,  her  eyes  fixed  unseeingly  on 
the  Vicar,  the  most  perfect  Christmas  she  had  ever  had. 
The  Vicar,  who  possessed  the  rare  and  very  beautiful 
priestly  quality  of  leaving  his  familiar  every-dayness  be- 
hind him  when  he  went  to  church,  preached  a  short,  simple, 
helpful  sermon,  his  rosy  old  face  grave  and  noble,  his 
voice  full  of  happy  solemnity. 

Miss  Flora  and  Miss  Effie  and  Cuckoo,  all  wearing  new 
furs,  sat  in  a  row  on  the  right  of  the  church,  and  in  the 
Vicarage  pew  next  old  Mrs.  Bridlegoose,  was  George,  full 
in  the  rich  light  that  fell  from  the  one  old  colored  window 
that  had  survived  the  years.  George  was  very  happy 
that  morning. 

He  loved  his  grandfather,  and  he  also,  as  he  himself 
mentally  put  it,  loved  the  Vicar  of  Widdybank.  They 
were  to  him  two  quite  distinct  people.  He  was  proud 
of  the  fine,  simple  old  cleric  and  he  appreciated  the  beauty 
and  wisdom  of  the  sermon. 

"And  now,  in  the  name  of  the  Father  and  the  Son.  .  .  ." 

The  Roseroofs  ladies  had  for  many  years  dined  on 
Christmas  Day  at  the  Vicarage,  but  before  dinner  George 
and  Cuckoo  climbed  the  hill  and  went  to  the  Green  Bench 
to  see  how  the  Roofs  were  looking. 

They  were  both  a  little  silent  as  they  climbed  the  path 
in  single  file,  and  when  George  had  brushed  four  inches  of 
powdery,  dry  snow  from  the  Bench,  they  sat  down  and 
they  were  still  for  a  while  longer. 

The  scene  below  them  was  one  of  almost  incomparable 
beauty.  Boys  and  girls  skating  on  the  tangle  of  ice 
among  the  three  bridges  at  Warcop  brought  to  the  wide- 
spread whiteness  splashes  and  blots  of  warm  reds  and 
blues;  the  fir  trees  up  Cotherside  glittered  like  so  many 
silver-powdered  Christmas  trees,  and  the  sky  was 

138 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  the  deep,  unbroken  blue  so  beautiful  in  winter  and 
so  inferior  to  cloud-swept  spaces  when  the  world  is 
green. 

And  just  below,  the  lovely  old  convoluted,  rose-colored 
roofs,  their  outlines  blurred  by  little  drifts  and  wreaths 
of  snow,  lay  like  a  bouquet  of  roses. 

Presently  George,  wondering  a  little  at  Cuckoo's  silence, 
turned  and  looked  at  her. 

She  wore  a  new  brown  coat  and  skirt — her  gift  from  the 
Aunts — and  her  new  musquash  furs,  the  Vicar's  offering. 

She  had  not  heard  him  move  and  was  staring  off  up 
Cotherside  with  fixed  eyes.  George  looked  at  her  intently. 
She  was  not  beautiful;  her  eyes  were  even  yet  too  small, 
her  skin  too  brown,  her  little  underhung  jaw  too  pro- 
truding. 

But  he  loved  the  bluish  mist  that  made  her  black  eyes 
unlike  all  the  other  black  eyes  in  the  world  and  he  loved 
her  one  dimple;  a  dimple  that  plainly  owed  its  existence 
to  the  slight  asymmetry  of  her  jaw.  And  the  glo'rious 
scarlet  of  her  lips,  he  decided,  any  one  must  love. 

"I  must  paint  you,  Nicky,"  he  burst  out  suddenly. 

"Do  you  still  paint?" 

It  seemed  very  odd  to  him  that  she  should  not  realize 
how  he  loved  his  poor  little  attempts  at  the  most  noble 
art,  and  he  laughed  tenderly  at  her.  "Do  I  paint?  Do 
I  breathe?" 

Then  he  added,  gravely,  "Ah,  yes,  I  do — in  a  way. 
Rather  badly,  I  know,  but  still — I've  had  lessons  in  Glas- 
gow and  I'm  better  than  I  used  to  be.  Will  you  sit  to 
me?" 

"If  you  like,"  she  answered  indifferently,  and  a  new, 
sudden,  surprising  fear  came  to  him,  the  fear  that  he 
might  bore  her. 

"Perhaps — perhaps  you  don't  like  painting,  Cuckoo?" 

His  voice,  coming  after  a  pause,  was  deprecating. 

139 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

She  sat  very  primly,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  roofs.  "Oh, 
yes,"  she  said,  "I  do.  Well  enough." 

She  had  changed  very  much,  he  thought,  during  his 
two  years'  absence.  She  was  reserved,  almost  constrained, 
and  she  seemed,  this  Cuckoo  who  in  the  old  days  had  been 
so  like  a  little  boy,  to  be  intensely,  almost  painfully 
feminine. 

He  looked  at  one  of  her  narrow  little  hands  that  lay 
basking  in  the  sun  on  her  muff,  and  an  absurd  feeling  of 
pity  rushed  over  him.  It  was  so  small  a  hand,  so  thin,  so 
delicate-looking.  He  longed  to  cover  it  up,  to  put  it  back 
into  the  muff.  .  .  . 

He  wished,  with  the  same  almost  unendurable  acute- 
ness,  that  her  dear  little  sloe-eyes  were  larger;  other 
women's  eyes  were  larger,  and  brutes  and  fools  must  ad- 
mire her  the  less  because  hers  were  small.  Her  dear  little 
eyes  with  the  bluish  mist  in  them! 

Again,  if  she  were  only  taller !  He  had  friends,  even  he, 
the  reserved  old  "cat  that  walked  by  itself,"  as  they  called 
him,  young  men  who  talked  much  about  women;  and  he 
had  learned,  indifferent  listener  though  they  had  found 
him,  that,  in  the  abstract,  all  men  admire  tall  women. 
Only  a  man  who  happens  really  to  love  some  particular 
small  woman,  he  knew,  ever  admires  shortness.  Then, 
he  was  aware,  the  beloved  at  once  became  a  pocket  Venus, 
or  "just  as  tall  as  my  heart,"  or  was  compared  to  the 
greatest  treasures  in  the  world,  to  pearls,  diamonds,  vio- 
lets, small,  priceless  things. 

So  as  they  sat  there  on  the  Green  Bench  in  their  un- 
usual word-scarceness,  George  wished  that  Cuckoo  were 
taller,  wished  it  with  a  strength  that  drew  the  color  from 
his  thin  cheeks  and  caused  his  quiet  heart  to  quicken  a 
little. 

At  last  she  spoke.  "You  sang  beautifully,  George," 
she  said.  "In  church,  I  mean." 

140 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

He  laughed.  "My  voice  is  not  much  good.  I  suppose 
it's  because  I'm  such  a  crock,  but  it's  a  pity,  isn't 
it?" 

"You  aren't  a  crock.  I  hate  the  word,"  she  returned 
quickly,  "and  it  sounded  beautiful." 

After  a  moment  she  went  on,  "Do  you  remember  singing 
'Hark,  hark,  my  soul,'  at  Father's  funeral?" 

"Yes." 

"Sir  Peregrine  Janeways  cried." 

"Did  he?" 

"Do  you  know  him,  George?  Since  you've  grown  up, 
I  mean." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  I've  never  seen  him  from 
that  day.  Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  Rachel  knows  him,  and  she's  told  me 
about  him.  He's  a  queer  old  thing,  I  should  think,  like 
one  of  the  Regency  beaux,  or  something." 

"Rather  like  Grammont.  Somebody  painted  him  a 
while  ago.  I  forget  who — I  saw  it  at  the  Academy.  He's 
a  magnificent-looking  fellow " 

She  nodded.  "He's  been  in  the  divorce-court  three 
times — rather  the  modern  equivalent  for  tournaments, 
isn't  it — and  married  two  of  the  women." 

George  frowned  a  little.  He  wished  she  didn't  know 
about  such  ugly  things.  "Shall  we  start  back?"  he  asked, 
"it  will  be  pretty  slippery  going  down  the  hill,  you 
know " 

Cuckoo  was  quite  willing  to  go,  but  for  some  reason  she 
clung  to  Sir  Peregrine  as  a  subject  of  conversation,  and 
as  he  followed  her  down  the  narrow  path,  George  learned 
that  Sir  Peregrine  was  like  a  man  in  a  novel;  very  fas- 
cinating and  dangerous ;  that  no  woman  could  resist  him ; 
that  even  now  he  was  always  in  love  with  some  one 

"I  see,"  George  muttered  at  intervals.  As  they  crossed 
the  brook  by  the  stepping-stones,  he  changed  the  subject 

141 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

by  main  force.    "You  haven't  forgotten  our  promise  to  go 
to  see  Nurse  this  afternoon  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered  readily,  but  her  volubility  had 
ceased,  and  the  rest  of  their  way  to  the  Vicarage  was 
made  in  almost  unbroken  silence. 

In  the  drawing-room  they  found  Miss  Effie  and  Miss 
Flora  in  all  the  glory  of  their  best  gowns  (made-over 
Tads  of  Aunt  Marcia's  from  last  year's  Box),  sitting  by 
the  fire.  Miss  Flora,  in  silver-gray  silk  with  long  lace 
frills  at  her  wrists,  wore  that  day,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  a  cap — a  strip  of  beautiful  lace  folded  straitly  across 
her  abundant  gray  hair  and  pinned  down  by  two  small 
swallows  of  silver  studded  with  minute  diamonds. 

George  glanced  at  her  with  a  flush  of  pleasure  in  his 
large  eyes ;  she  was  quite  lovely.  Miss  Effie,  in  violet 
silk,  of  a  thick  and  rich  quality  but  exactly  the  wrong 
shade  for  her  lined  and  darkly-yellow  face,  wore  her  un- 
compromising hair  plastered  down  as  usual,  and  as  usual 
apparently  varnished. 

The  Vicar,  much  rounder,  and  quite  as  rubicund  as  ever, 
stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

"Mrs.  Baker  from  the  Post  Office  has  just  been  in," 
he  declared  when  he  had  kissed  Cuckoo,  "to  bring  a — a — 
something  that  was  forgotten  this  morning.  Guess  what 
it  is?" 

Proudly  he  produced  a  large,  square  silver  frame  and, 
smiling  from  it,  a  new  photograph  of  Rachel  Poole. 

"It's  mine,  George,"  he  teased,  "but  you  may  look  at 
it!" 

George  and  Cuckoo  looked  at  it  together. 

Rachel  wore  evening  dress,  her  long,  smooth  shoulders 
already  a  little  matronly  above  the  wonderful  satin  gown. 
Her  hair  was  parted  and  rolled  back  in  waves  and  twisted 
into  a  long  Greek  knot,  and  her  long,  rather  too  fat  arms 
hung  straight  by  her  sides. 

142 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Hers  was  the  undeniable,  over-ripe,  heavy-jawed  beauty 
of  many  well-born  English  girls. 

"Oh,"  Cuckoo  cried,  "isn't  she — splendid!  Isn't  she 
lovely!"  Then  she  added  with  genuine  spite,  "Her  chin's 
going  to  be  double  soon !" 

The  three  elders  laughed,  and  the  Vicar  accused  her  of 
envy  and  blackheartedness,  but  George  walked  quickly 
out  of  the  door  and  up  to  his  room  and  sat  down  on  the 
bed.  For  the  moment  his  gentle  soul  was  in  an  uproar. 
He  hated  Rachel  because  she  was  tall  and  fair  and  curved 
and  soft,  because  Cuckoo  was  short  and  dark  and  angular 
and  thin.  Poor,  little  unbeautiful  Cuckoo,  how  he  wanted 
her  to  be  beautiful,  and  beautifully-dressed  and  trium- 
phant, and  admired !  He  so  wanted  it  that  he  dug  his  nails 
into  his  palms  and  ground  his  teeth  aloud.  "Poor,  poor 
little  dark  thing,"  he  thought.  And  thus  it  was  that 
quite  suddenly,  with  no  preliminary  warning  of  any  kind, 
he  knew  he  loved  Cuckoo. 

In  this  matter  Cuckoo  had  the  advantage,  if  it  were  an 
advantage,  of  having  known,  since  the  moment  he  came 
into  the  Roseroofs'  dining-room  two  evenings  before  to 
break  into  her  musings  over  the  fire,  that  she  loved  him. 
It  came  to  her  in  a  kind  of  delicious,  humble  weakness. 
She,  the  strong,  the  pig-headed,  the  unaffectionate,  wanted 
to  wait  on  George,  to  serve  him.  She  would  have  liked 
to  be  so  small  and  light  that  he  could  carry  her  in  his 
arms ;  she  wanted  to  cry  and  have  him  dry  her  tears ;  she 
wanted  to  be  stupid  and  have  him  laugh  at  her  in  his 
gentle  way ;  she  wanted  to  smooth  his  dear,  mouse-colored 
hair,  and  kiss  his  large,  white  eyelids. 

And  although  there  was  in  her  feeling  none  of  the  wild- 
ness  she  had  been  taught  by  books  and  by  the  lavishly-in- 
formed Rachel  to  expect,  she  never  for  a  moment  doubted 
its  nature.  It  was  love ;  her  kind  of  love,  and  she  knew  it. 

143 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

She  sat  in  her  little  room  that  night  for  a  long  time, 
thinking.  Her  plan  of  enthralling  and  torturing  George 
now  looked  to  her  like  criminal  lunacy.  Rachel,  it  was 
clear,  did  not  know ! 

Dear  George,  sweet  George,  what  a  love  he  was,  with 
his  vague  eyes  and  his  baby  mustache  like  a  blessed  little 
brown  caterpillar ! 

She  had  gone  to  sleep  perfectly,  unquestioningly  happy, 
and  the  next  day  had  been  almost  as  blissful. 

Because  of  her  fears  lest  the  new  frock  might  prove  too 
beautiful,  too  entrancing,  and  thus  give  George  one  pang, 
she  very  nearly  did  not  wear  it,  but  in  the  end  she  did, 
and  the  dinner-party  was  the  most  exquisite  dinner-party 
that  had  ever  been  given. 

So,  all  Christmas  Eve  and  all  Christmas  morning, 
Cuckoo  and  George  were  as  happy  as,  at  their  lovely  ages, 
they  deserved  to  be.  Cuckoo  had  not  as  yet  begun  to 
think,  and  George  did  not  know. 

During  dinner  the  young  man  wondered  at  a  variety 
of  things,  but  when,  at  about  three,  he  and  Cuckoo  started 
up  over  the  Edge  to  Clavers  where  old  Mary  Watlass, 
George's  faithful  and  still-loving  nurse  lived,  the  delight 
of  the  prospective  walk  and  the  beauty  of  the  after- 
noon filled  her  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  every  lesser 
thought. 

The  Vicar,  Miss  Effie,  and  Miss  Flora  watched  the  two 
young  things  from  the  window,  as  they  went  out  of  the 
garden  and  down  towards  the  stepping-stones.  "George 
doesn't  look  too  strong,  Vicar,"  Miss  Effie  said,  as  they 
stood  there.  "He  is  too  narrow  across  the  chest  to  please 
me," 

"Yes,  he  is.  But  he's  fatter,  and  Fleming  treats  him 
as  if  he  were  his  own  son.  He  is  very  fortunate  in  having 
such  a  chief,  as  he  calls  it, " 


144 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"He  seems  to  like  Cuckoo,"  Miss  Flora  observed, 
absently. 

"Flora  Flues!    What  do  you  mean?" 

Miss  Flora  glanced  at  her  sister.  "I  mean  just  what 
I — didn't  mean  to  say  it  out  loud,  Effie," 

The  Vicar,  who  had  gone  back  to  the  fire  and  was  rather 
noisily  putting  on  coals,  did  not  hear  them,  and  Miss 
Effie  went  on,  "If  I  thought  there  was  any  danger  of — of 
that,  I'd  write  to  Marcia  to  send  for  her  now,  at  once, 
instead  of  waiting  till  the  spring,"  she  declared. 

Miss  Flora  fixed  her  violet  eyes,  the  eyes  so  usually 
wandering  in  a  vague  way,  suddenly  steadfast  on  her 
sister's  perturbed  face. 

"If  you  mean  any  danger  of  Cuckoo's  marrying 
George,"  she  said,  quietly,  "you  need  not  be  troubled, 
Effie.  Cuckoo  has  plans  of  her  own — plans  that  do  not 
include  marrying  a  poor  man." 

Miss  Effie  was  a  little  annoyed  at  her  sister's  thus  turn- 
ing character-interpreter,  a  role  she  regarded  exclusively 
as  her  own. 

"So  she's  been  confiding  in  you,  has  she?"  she  returned. 
"Did  she  also  tell  you  why  she  didn't  pick  up  your  spec- 
tacles last  night  after  dinner  ?" 

"Why  she  didn't  pick  up "  began  Miss  Flora 

vaguely. 

"Because  she  couldn't"  Miss  Effie  interrupted  her  in 
triumph  that  was  tinged,  as  so  much  triumph  is,  with 
malice.  "That  frock  was  so  tight  she  could  hardly 
breathe.  She  dared  not  stoop!" 

"Oh,  Effie!" 

"Yes,  oh,  Effie.  It's  a  good  thing  'oh,  Effie'  isn't  so 
blind  as  some  other  people,  or  nothing  would  ever  be 
noticed !" 

With  her  springless  step,  Miss  Effie  went  back  to  the 
fire,  and  Miss  Flora  stood  a  little  longer  by  the  window, 

145 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

her  eyes   filled  with   a   queer,  half-pitying,   half-pained 
look. 

George's  former  nurse,  old  Mary  Watlass,  lived  in  a 
tiny  stone  cottage  in  the  outskirts  of  Clavers,  a  dale  vil- 
lage so  irregular,  so  scattered,  that  each  of  its  wide-set 
cottages  seemed  to  be  on  the  edge  of  it. 

It  was  one  o'clock  by  the  time  Cuckoo  and  George 
arrived  at  her  door,  and  the  old  woman  was  waiting  for 
them,  dressed  in  her  best.  Her  dinner  was  in  the  oven, 
and  she  had  made  a  special  kind  of  suet-pudding  which 
she  believed  George  to  love,  for  the  reason  that  when, 
in  his  childhood,  it  had  been  prescribed  for  him  because 
of  its  fattening  qualities,  he  had  unmurmuringly  partaken 
of  it. 

She  was  a  vast,  clean  old  woman  who  seemed  to  have 
lost  her  original  solidity  of  form;  Cuckoo  was  struck 
with  the  idea  that  she  seemed  to  be  thawing,  so  shapeless 
and  fluid  her  contours  had  become ;  she  was,  it  appeared, 
overflowing  her  natural  boundaries.  Her  welcome  of  the 
two  young  people  was  loud  and  voluble,  and  her  delight 
over  the  gifts  they  had  brought  her  gave  them  the  truest 
kind  of  pleasure. 

During  the  two  years  of  his  absence,  George  had  nat- 
urally changed,  and  the  old  woman's  admiration  for  his 
improved  appearance  put  him  literally  to  the  blush. 

"Oh,  no,  Mary,"  he  protested,  laughing,  as  she  insisted 
on  unwinding  the  silk  muffler  Miss  Flora  had  knitted  for 
him,  "I  really  am  not  a  handsome  young  gentleman,  am  I, 
Cuckoo?" 

Cuckoo,  as  she  agreed  with  him,  wondered  if  they  could 
possibly  guess  how  heavenly  he  looked  to  her. 

The  little  kitchen,  though  it  may  not  have  been  of  the 
marvellous  tidiness  of  those  whose  owners  had  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  born  in  Yorkshire,  was  yet  very  pleas- 

146 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ant,  and  its  owner's  southern  nature  was  signalized  by  a 
number  of  small,  unnecessary  luxuries  that  it  contained. 

There  was  not  a  single  wooden-seated  chair  in  the 
room  and  Cuckoo,  with  an  irresistible  inward  grin,  remem- 
bered an  old  story  of  the  Vicar's:  how  Benjie  Brigworthy 
had  once  been  heard  to  say,  in  the  early  days  of  Mary's 
life  at  the  Vicarage,  that  yon  young  woman  from  t'south 
seemed  to  think,  the  way  she  scolded  about  the  hard 
chairs,  that  southern  hindquarters  were  more  delikit  than 
northern  ones. 

The  sofa  was  covered  with  chintz,  and,  as  Cuckoo 
whispered  to  George  while  Mary  was  in  the  larder,  you 
could  stick  on  it  without  being  nailed.  The  roast  beef 
was  tough,  as  most  of  the  dale  beef  was,  but  old  Mary 
couldn't,  she  explained,  abide  mutton  on  Christmas  Day; 
there  were  roast  potatoes  and  onions  boiled  in  milk,  be- 
sides the  suet-pudding.  It  was  a  merry  little  party, 
Cuckoo  and  their  hostess,  in  their  gaiety,  almost  covering 
George's  comparative  silence. 

George,  for  his  part,  hardly  knew  what  he  was  eating 
until  he  came  to  the  pudding,  which  he  loathed,  for  he 
was  filled  with  an  almost  aching  sense  of  the  beauty  of 
Cuckoo's  evident  fear  of  meeting  his  eyes.  The  little 
love,  to  be  so  adorably  shy! 

If  Cuckoo  was  shy  she  did  not  know  it.  She  was  very 
happy,  in  an  utterly  unquestioning  way,  and  the  old 
woman's  reminiscences  of  George's  babyhood  and  child- 
hood were  to  her  of  an  incomparable  interest. 

"I'll  show  you  the  picture  we  had  took  of  'im  in  them 
purple  velvet  trousers,"  Mary  said  at  the  end  of  the  meal. 
"He  had  just  learnt  to  spit,  and  was  very  proud  of  it,  and 
spat  on  the  floor  at  the  photographer's " 

"Oh,  George,"  murmured  Cuckoo.  .  .  . 

The  album  was  a  large,  brown  volume  of  heavily  gilt, 
corrugated  leather.  Its  edges  were  apparently  of  solid 

147 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

gold;  it  positively  smelt  of  expensiveness,  and  had  been, 
Mrs.  Watlass  almost  unnecessarily  explained,  given  to 
her  on  the  occasion  of  her  silver  wedding.  Sitting  between 
the  two  young  people  on  the  sofa  so  miraculously  un- 
slippery,  the  old  woman  exhibited  her  picture  gallery. 

First,  in  the  place  of  honor,  a  wreath  of  vivid  forget- 
me-nots  engarlanding  him,  the  Vicar,  in  the  preposterous 
clothes  of  the  early  'seventies.  The  Vicar,  who  had  prob- 
ably never  leant  on  a  broken  pillar  in  his  life — after  all, 
very  few  people  have — was  depicted  not  only  leaning  on 
one,  in  obviously  new  clothes,  but  also  as  smelling  a  rose. 

George  and  Cuckoo  shouted  irreverently  over  this  mas- 
terpiece, but  Cuckoo  melted  into  an  agony  of  tenderness 
over  the  next:  George  aged  two  months — and  such  very 
short  months,  Cuckoo  thought,  they  looked  to  have  been — 
"Your  poor  mamma  gave  it  to  me,  Master  George,"  old 
Mary  explained,  "just  before  she  died."  George,  lying  on 
a  heavily-embroidered  pillow,  his  sparrow-like  legs  wav- 
ing incoherently,  his  eyes  fixed  in  a  terrific  squint.  The 
pathos  of  this  portrait  nearly  killed  Cuckoo,  though  she 
gave  a  loud  laugh  at  it,  but  George  thought  shame  of  his 
infant  self  and  drew  her  attention  to  a  pretty  picture  of 
his  father  and  mother,  arm-in-arm,  contemplating  a  very 
ruinous  abbey. 

There  were  other  photographs;  photographs  of  Mrs. 
Watlass'  first  mistress  and  her  baby ;  of  her  brothers  and 
sisters;  of  her  friends;  all  of  them,  apparently,  attired 
in  the  same  clothes. 

Then,  more  Georges.  George  at  three,  in  plaid  trousers 
and  a  braided  velvet  jacket;  George  at  eight  as  a  High- 
land chieftain;  George  at  ten,  with  too  short  sleeves  and 
village  boots. 

"That,"  Cuckoo  said  gently,  pointing  to  the  last,  "is 
the  way  I  first  remember  you," 

And  finally  came  the  picture  that  broke  the  dream  and 

148 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

caused  the  trouble.  George  had  reached  round  his  nurse's 
enormously  broad  back  and  found  Cuckoo's  hand.  Very 
gently  he  held  it,  so  that  she  might,  if  she  chose,  pretend 
not  to  know  where  it  was ;  and  hers  was  as  limp  as  she 
could  make  it,  but  she  was  conscious  of  his  touch  almost 
to  a  painful  degree  and  her  eyes  were,  if  not  actually  wet, 
yet  not  quite  dry,  as  she  bent  over  the  album. 

"Oh,  what  a  handsome  young  man,"  she  exclaimed 
suddenly,  and  it  was  with  marked  dryness  that  the  old 
woman  replied,  "Yes,  Miss  Cuckoo,  he  was  'andsome,  was 
Neddy  Watlass." 

"Any — any  relation  of  yours,  Nurse?"  George  asked 
with  an  effort  (Cuckoo's  hand  was  so  much  more  impor- 
tant !) 

The  fat  old  woman  gave  a  sudden  snort,  oddly  at 
variance  with  her  so  invariably  placid  exterior.  "Well, 
I  don't  know,  Master  George,  if  he's  any  relation,"  she 
answered,  "but  he's  my  husband." 

"Good  gracious,  Nurse!  I — I  didn't  know  you  had  a 
husband.  Do  you  mean  that  he's  still  alive  ?" 

Mrs.  Watlass  nodded  with  dignity.  "Oh,  yes — so  far 
as  I  know  he's  alive,"  she  returned. 

And  after  a  little  coaxing  she  told  them  her  story; 
how,  when  she  was  twenty-one,  she  had  come  from  Sussex 
with  her  mistress  to  visit  Mrs.  Saltburn  of  Clavers  Hall 
— "I  was  nurse  to  little  Miss  Julia — she  died  long  ago, 
poor  little  darling — and  I  met  Neddy  Watlass  here.  He 
had  no  money,  and  no  more  had  I,  but  we  were  two  fools 
and  thought  that  didn't  matter.  Mrs.  Lane,  my  lady, 
gave  us  twenty  pounds,  and  Mrs.  Saltburn  let  us  have 
this  cottage  for  four  pounds  a  year;  Ned  was  only  a 
farm-laborer,  Miss  Cuckoo,  though  he  never  looked  it. 
So  we  were  married.  And  then  my  last  baby  died — we'd 
been  married  many  years  before  she  came,  and  the  three 
boys  had  all  gone  while  they  were  small — her  name  was 

149 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Gladys,  for  Mrs.  Lane — and  the  Vicar  came  and  fetched 
me  for  you,  Master  George — and  that's  all," 

The  old  woman's  voice  trailed  away  into  silence,  and 
the  ticking  of  the  tall  clock  grew  very  loud  and  then  faded 
to  its  normal  note. 

"But,"  Cuckoo  asked,  in  a  dull,  slow  way,  "what — what 
happened,  Nurse?  Was  he — was  he  bad  to  you?" 

"Bad?  Not  him!"  Mrs.  Watlass  rose  and  closed  the 
album  with  a  bang.  "It  was  the  worry  that  spoilt  it  all. 
The  babies  coming,  and  nothing  for  them,  and  then  the 
doctor's  bills,  and  the  funerals — funerals  are  dreadful 
dear  things,  Miss  Cuckoo.  No,  poor  Ned  was  never  a  bad 
man  and  he  loved  his  'ome,  but  the  trouble  was  too  much 
for  him.  It  was  just  being  so  poor,  that's  what  it 
was," 

Cuckoo  had  drawn  her  hand  from  George's  and  sat 
looking  straight  before  her.  Poverty!  Poverty  had 
ruined  even  this  simple  peasant-woman's  life;  what,  she 
thought,  would  it  do  to  hers,  Cuckoo's?  In  an  instanta- 
neous vision  she  saw  her  coming  years  marching  towards 
her,  and  she  knew  that  they  must  not  come  in  shabbiness 
and  sordid  misery.  She  had  been  a  fool;  she  had  for- 
gotten, but  now  she  remembered. 

She  rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  "It's  beginning 
to  snow,  George,"  she  said  gently,  "we  had  better  be 
going," 

The  young  man  saw  the  change  that  had  come  over 
her  face,  and  it  hurt  and  dismayed  him,  but  he  could  not 
read  it. 

They  said  good-bye  to  their  old  kind  hostess  and  went 
out  into  the  gray  afternoon. 

"It's  too  cold,"  Cuckoo  declared,  in  a  hard,  business- 
like voice,  "to  go  home  by  Laverock,  we'd  better  stick  to 
the  road  and  cut  down  through  Cold  Comfort," 

There  was  something  in  her  manner  that  prevented  his 

150 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

asking  her  why  she  was  so  different,  as  he  mentally  put  it. 
Heartsore  and  puzzled,  he  accepted  her  mood,  and  almost 
in  silence  they  met  the  oncoming  storm. 

In  the  midst  of  the  great  gash  in  the  earth  that  was 
Cold  Comfort  lead  mine,  Cuckoo  stopped  in  the  shelter 
of  a  heap  of  stones  and  waste,  to  pin  her  hat  more 
securely. 

"Have  you  a  headache,  Kiddy?"  he  asked  in  a  voice 
almost  to  be  stigmatized  as  one  of  humility. 

She  laughed.  "No.  The  room  was  stuffy,  that's  all. 
And  then — it  made  me  angry  to  think  of  poor  old  Mary's 
having  been  such  a  fool" 

He  did  not,  in  his  simplicity,  understand,  and  because 
he  was  not  vitally  interested  in  old  Mary,  he  did  not  ask 
what  she  meant.  The  gray,  windy  world  was  out  of  joint, 
that  was  all  he  knew;  and  it  was  more  than  enough. 

In  unbroken  silence  they  went  down  the  hill. 


CHAPTER 

ALL  the  next  day  Cuckoo  stayed  in  bed.  She  Kao!, 
she  said,  a  bad  cold.  Not  a  sore  throat,  so  Aunt 
Effie  need  not  get  the  tannin  gargle,  and  not  fever, 
so  Aunt  Flora  needn't  get  her  a  draught;  she  just  had  a 
cold  and  was  going  to  stay  in  bed.  The  old  ladies  were 
alarmed,  for  Cuckoo  was  never  ill,  and  hadn't  stayed  in 
bed  more  than  ten  days  altogether  since  she  came  to 
Roseroofs  fourteen  years  before.  Miss  Effie  and  Miss 
Flora  sent  for  Esther  Oughtenshaw  and  consulted  with 
her.  Esther  thought  it  was  wet  feet. 

"Miss  Coocoo  didn't  ought  to  go  rampaging  all  over 
the  country  in  the  deep  snow,"  she  said,  shaking  her 
head. 

Miss  Effie  wanted  to  send  Nelly  for  Dr.  Dawes,  but  Miss 
Flora  persuaded  her  not  to. 

"It  would  be  nonsense,"  Miss  Flora  said  gently;  "it's 
a  dreadful  day,  and  you  know  how  bad  his  rheumatism 


is,"- 


Miss  Effie  looked  at  her  sternly. 

"The  truth  is,  Flora,"  she  said,  "you  are  too  easy 
with  the  child.  If  she's  ill  enough  to  stay  in  bed,  she's 
ill  enough  to  see  a  doctor  and  take  whatever  he  gives  her." 
(Dr.  Dawes  was  deservedly  famous  for  the  nastiness  of 
his  draughts.) 

Miss  Flora  smiled.  "I  know  I'm  not  so  sharp  and 
clever  as  you,  dear  Effie,"  she  said,  and  Miss  Effie  was 
pacified,  and  dropped  the  question  of  the  doctor. 

George  Loxley  came  after  lunch  and  asked  for  Cuckoo. 
He  looked  pale  and  owned  to  a  sleepless  night,  and  Miss 

152 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Flora  with  her  own  hands  made  him  an  egg-nogg  which 
he  swallowed  bravely,  though  he  happened  to  loathe  nut- 
meg; but  though  he  stayed  two  hours  Cuckoo  did  not 
appear. 

Miss  Effie  went  up  twice  and  declared  the  child  to  be 
sound  asleep,  and  finally  George  asked  Miss  Flora  to  go. 

"You — she  can't  be  asleep  all  this  time,  Miss  Flora," 
he  begged,  "and — just  let  her  know  how  much  I  want 
to  see  her.  I  have  to  go  back  tomorrow  afternoon,  you 
know." 

Miss  Flora  went,  and  came  back  in  a  moment. 

"I  spoke  to  her  twice,"  she  said,  "and  she  didn't  answer, 
so  I  suppose " 

George's  short-sighted  eyes  studied  her  intently. 

"Do  you  think —  "  he  began,  when  Miss  Effie  came  in 
and  Miss  Flora  turned  to  her. 

"You  thought  she  was  asleep,  didn't  you,  Effie?" 

"She  was  asleep.  She  was  even,"  Miss  Effie  answered, 
with  delicate  confusion,  "h'm!  snoring  a  little — just  a 
little !" 

Miss  Flora  fluttered  her  hands  and  turned  to  George 
in  some  triumph.  "You  see !  Effie  is  the  clever  one,  and 
she  would  be  sure  to  know," 

"Not  clever,  Flora,"  protested  Miss  Effie  modestly. 
"It's  only  that  you  were  always  too — too  poetic,  too  kind- 
hearted,  to  see  into  things  much;  but  the  child  is  asleep. 
That  is  certain." 

George  went  away  disconsolate. 

He  was  very  unhappy,  and  even  the  Vicar  saw  it  an3 
asked  the  reason.  The  truthful  George  of  course  lied,  as 
anyone  would  have  done  in  such  circumstances.  He  said 
he  had  a  headache,  and  then  a  little  later  he  forgot  and 
said  he  had  a  sore  throat.  Luckily  the  Vicar,  like  Miss 
Flora,  was  not  a  close  observer  and  went  on  peacefully 
with  his  reading,  after  suggesting  George's  going  early 

153 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

to  bed  and  taking  a  glass  of  rum  and  water,  hot.  Mean- 
time, all  the  interminable  hours  of  the  day,  Cuckoo  had 
lain  in  her  bed,  fighting  her  first  fight. 

How  she  had  been  so  stupid  as  to  forget,  she  declared 
over  and  over  again,  she  could  not  imagine.  All  her  life 
(and  very  long  those  eighteen  years  looked  to  her)  she 
had  dreamt  of  one  day  "having  things."  But  for  the 
firmness  of  her  belief  in  this  some  day  when  she  was  to 
have  all  and  more  than  Rachel  had,  how  could  she  have 
borne  to  see  Rachel's  belongings?  If  she  had  not  known 
that  she  herself  was  one  day  to  travel,  how  could  she  have 
borne  Aunt  Marcia's  label-covered  boxes?  If  she  had 
not  known  that  people  were  one  day  to  be  hers,  how  could 
she  have  endured  the  loneliness  of  the  dales? 

The  Aunts  had  admired  her  for  her  patience,  she  knew ; 
thought  her  wonderful  not  to  repine,  not  to  be  bored 
with  the  unbroken  dullness  of  Roseroofs.  And  oh,  what 
a  repining  would  have  been  hers  were  it  not  that  all  along 
she  had  known  that  one  day  she,  Cuckoo,  was  to  have 
everything ! 

And  now  she  had  gone  and  fallen  in  love  with  George ! 
With  George  Loxley !  Only  George ! 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  have  forgiven  her  own 
folly  if  the  menace  to  her  future,  the  occasion  of  her 
blithering  idiocy,  had  been  a  stranger.  If  he  had  been 
a  genius,  however  poor;  or  divinely  handsome;  or  even 
a  younger  version  of  the  ancient  heart-breaker,  Sir  Pere- 
grine Janeways;  but  George!  George,  whom  she  had 
known  since  she  was  a  baby ;  who  was  gentle ;  and  a  book- 
worm ;  and  a  bank  clerk ;  and  short-sighted ;  and  narrow- 
chested.  George,  who  painted  badly,  and  had  to  take  care 
of  his  digestion,  and  mind  not  to  get  his  feet  wet!  The 
girl  actually  writhed  in  her  agony  of  rage  over  her  own 
weakness.  What  could  it  be  in  George  that  made  her  go 
all  to  pieces  and  want  to  put  both  her  arms  round  him  and 

154 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

take  care  of  him?  His  ugly,  mousy  hair  looked  oeautiful 
to  her,  though  she  knew  it  wasn't;  and  his  long,  delicate 
nose,  the  end  of  which  sometimes  quivered  like  a  rabbit's — 
it  was  an  absurd  nose!  But  the  absurdity  of  George's 
nose  was  of  no  real  help  to  the  girl,  and  his  inability  to 
digest  pork  in  any  form,  once  a  source  of  scornful  mirth 
to  her,  became,  that  wintry  afternoon,  a  pathetic,  almost 
a  winning  quality.  She  lay  as  still  as  a  mouse  when  her 
aunts  came  and  peeped  at  her,  and,  as  has  been  said,  on 
one  occasion  she  snored. 

She  knew  George  was  downstairs  ;  George  the  Destroyer, 
no,  George  the  would-be  Destroyer;  and  she  would  not 
see  him. 

Before  she  went  to  sleep  that  night  she  had  vowed  a 
vow.  She  knew  that  George  must  leave  Warcop  by  the 
four  o'clock  bus  for  Middleton,  and  she  vowed  to  herself 
that  she  would  rise  early  and  walk  over  and  spend  the 
day  at  Thornby  Lodge  with  old  Judge  Capel.  She  dis- 
liked Judge  Capel,  a  gouty  recluse  with  a  red-hot  temper, 
but  at  Thornby  Lodge  she  would  be  safe  from  George. 

And  immediately  after  breakfast  she  set  out,  despite 
Miss  Effie's  and  Miss  Flora's  surprise  at  her  announce- 
ment of  what  she  was  going  to  do  and  Miss  Effie's  re- 
minder that  it  was  poor  George's  last  day.  Cuckoo 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  must  have  a  walk.  I  need  it. 
Give  George  my  love,  and  say  good-bye  for  me,"  she 
added  steadily,  helping  herself  lavishly  to  marmalade. 

Miss  Flora  pushed  another  little  glass  pot  towards  her. 
"That's  marmalade,  dear,"  she  said,  "this  is  the  black 
currant " 

The  look  that  Cuckoo  flashed  at  Miss  Flora  was  not 
amiable,  but  no  more  was  said,  and  a  little  later  Cuckoo 
was  on  her  way  to  Warcop,  beyond  which,  up  Cotherside, 
Thornby  Lodge  lay,  a  yellowish  block  in  the  snow. 

155 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Judge  Capel,  whose  wife  had  brought  the  Lodge  to 
him  as  part  of  her  marriage  portion,  loathed  the  North 
and  Northern  people.  He  was  a  crabbed,  discontented 
old  failure  of  a  man,  who  was  gnawed  by  a  feeling  that  he 
had  never  been  properly  valued,  either  as  a  man  or  a 
lawyer. 

He  detested  his  heir,  who  was  a  clergyman  in  Cumber- 
land, and  his  only  friends  were  two  poor  old  sisters, 
cousins,  who  visited  him  occasionally  out  of  a  badly-dis- 
guised sense  of  duty ;  and  old  Dr.  Dawes,  who,  when  occa- 
sion arose,  was  quite  capable  of  out-bullying  the  old  bully, 
and  who,  furthermore,  possessed  the  gift  of  mobility  and 
invariably  ended  their  quarrels  by  marching  out,  leaving 
his  worsted  adversary  to  what  he  knew  would  be  three  or 
four  weeks'  deprivation  of  any  male  society. 

Cuckoo  sat  with  the  old  man  for  several  hours  and 
lunched  alone  in  the  big  dining-room,  which  he  never  used 
in  the  winter.  She  was  strangely  unhappy,  and  her  little 
face  looked  so  white  and  wan  that  Jebbs,  the  old  butler, 
insisted  on  her  having  a  glass  of  sherry  and  water.  After 
lunch  Judge  Capel  proposed  a  game  of  picquet,  but  the 
game  came  to  a  sudden  end,  for  her  uncontrollable  dis- 
traction caused  him  to  lose  all  patience  with  her,  and  he 
burst  out,  as  nearly  swearing  at  her  as  even  rheumatoid 
arthritis  often  leads  a  man  to  swear  at  any  woman  not 
his  own  wife. 

She  rose.  "I'm  going  now,"  she  said,  putting  the  card- 
table  to  one  side  and  holding  out  her  hand. 

"No,  no,  Cuckoo — don't  be  so  ridiculously  hasty." 

"I  must  go.     Good-bye." 

He  apologized,  but  she  would  not  stay,  though  she  no 
longer  cared  what  he  called  her.  It  was  simply  that  she 
moist  get  out  into  the  air  and  walk. 

When  she  got  to  the  Lodge  gates  she  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment looking  at  the  view.  Down  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 

156 


He  dropped  his  portmanteau  and  held  her  close  against 
his  well-worn  old  coat. 


/ 

i 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

lay  Warcop,  with  its  three  bridges,  the  river  sprawling 
like  a  dark  snake  in  the  snow,  and  beyond,  off  up  to  the 
right,  just  under  the  Edge,  the  little  blot  of  trees  that  was 
Roseroofs.  Off  to  her  left,  round  the  curve,  Widdybank 
lay  in  a  light  haze,  the  church  tower  standing  out  among 
the  naked  trees ;  it  was  warmer,  and  the  snow  looked  blue ; 
it  was  going  to  thaw.  And  then  suddenly,  far  up  on  the 
Middleton  Road,  between  Watlass  Mill  and  Canty  Bridge, 
she  saw  a  small  yellow  and  black  thing  that  moved.  It 
was  the  bus  coming  from  the  twelve  o'clock  train  and  it 
was  coming  to  take  George  away. 

Suddenly  the  whole  thing  became  monstrous,  unbear- 
able. She  had  been  a  wicked  girl,  a  fool,  an  idiot.  No- 
thing mattered.  Not  money,  nor  travel,  nor  jewels — 
nothing  mattered  but  George.  Only  George  mattered. 
Down  the  road  she  flew,  racing  for  her  life  with  the  yellow 
bus.  It  was  slippery,  and  as  she  reached  the  bottom  it 
became  more  slippery.  At  Crowner  Bridge  (named  after 
the  battle  of  Corunna)  she  slipped  and  fell,  hurting  her 
elbow  very  badly,  but  she  was  up  and  off  again  before 
young  Tom  Graves  could  help  her,  and  dashing  up  the 
hill  to  the  little  Green  where  the  shops  were. 

Glancing  up  over  her  right  shoulder  just  as  she  turned 
up  the  bend  beyond  which  the  Middleton  Road  would  be 
out  of  sight,  she  took  a  last  look  up  it.  The  coach  had 
slowed  up  just  before  it  got  to  St.  Austin's  Bridge.  It 
could  not  be  at  the  "Grouse"  for  another  ten  minutes 
and  it  always  waited  there  fifteen  before  starting  back. 
So  she  would  catch  George  in  the  quiet  of  the  path  he 
was  sure  to  take  from  the  Vicarage,  the  path  which  joined 
the  road  just  ahead  of  her.  On  she  walked,  breaking  into 
an  honest  run  when  she  had  left  the  wood.  She  was  out  of 
breath  and  her  elbow  ached,  but  she  did  not  care. 

Nothing  mattered  but  George. 

iWhere  the  path,  hitherto  a  closely-winding  one,  comes 

157 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

out  on  the  broad  level  just  before  Flaye  Ghyll — it  keeps 
in  the  open  all  the  way  to  the  churchyard — she  stopped. 
But  for  the  Ghyll  she  could  see  straight  to  the  church, 
and  George  was  nowhere  in  sight.  She  had  missed 
him. 

She  waited  to  give  him  time  to  climb  out  of  the  Ghyll, 
if  he  had  already  got  down  into  it,  but  he  did  not  come. 
He  must  have  driven,  and  been  in  some  shop  or  at  the 
"Grouse,"  when  she  passed! 

He  had  gone,  and  she  had  missed  him.  At  that  mo- 
ment Cuckoo  Blundell,  young  as  she  was,  knew  despair — 
blinding,  sickening  despair.  She  turned  slowly  and  limped 
back  towards  where  the  path  met  the  steep  tributary  one 
leading  to  Roseroofs. 

Her  face  was  wan  and  looked  oddly  streaked,  as  if  very 
white  fingers  had  been  pressed  into  its  creamy-brown  sur- 
face. Her  eyes,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  were  drop- 
ping slow  tears ;  her  hands  were  clenched. 

He  had  gone.  George,  her  George,  whom  she  loved,  had 
gone. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  he  stood  before  her,  his  shabby 
portmanteau  in  his  hand. 

"Oh,  George,  George,"  she  said.  "I  thought  you'd 
gone,  and — I  wanted  you  so." 

He  dropped  his  portmanteau  and  held  her  close  against 
his  well-worn  old  coat.  She  could  never  remember  what 
he  said,  nor  what  she  said.  She  didn't  know  whether  he 
kissed  her  or  not,  though  he  did  know. 

To  her  it  was  enough  that  his  arms  were  round  her  and 
that  the  smell  in  her  nostrils  was  his,  the  peaty,  leathery, 
tobacco-y,  very  faintly  eau-de-Cologne-y  smell  was  his, 
and  that  nothing  else  mattered. 

They  stood  under  fir-trees,  and  as  they  stood,  the  melt- 
ing snow  began  to  slide  off  the  branches,  falling  with  soft 
plops. 

158 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Oh,  George,  George,"  the  girl  went  on,  "sit  down  on 
that  log  a  moment.  What  if  I'd  missed  you?" 

He  obeyed  her,  and  pulling  off  his  cap  she  knelt  by  him 
and  smoothed  his  hair  with  the  palms  of  her  hands. 

"My  little,  little  Doadie,"  she  murmured,  "and  his 
darling  rabbit  nose,  and  his  blessed  moustache  like  a 
caterpillar."  In  a  kind  of  frenzy  of  tenderness  she 
kissed  him  repeatedly — softly,  as  she  might  have  kissed 
a  baby. 

He  let  her  do  as  she  liked,  and  then  he  kissed  and 
fondled  her  almost  as  gently,  and  quite  as  tenderly. 

"My  Kiddie,  my  own  wicked  little  Cuckoo — thank  God 
I  found  you.  I'd  been  up  at  Roseroofs  again,  you  know — 
for  the  third  time." 

Presently,  hand  in  hand,  they  made  their  way  back  to 
the  village. 

"You  will  write  to  me,  Cuckoo?     You  won't  forget?" 

"No.  Oh,  George,  you  don't  know  what  a  beast  I've 
been.  I  wasn't  ill  yesterday,  nor  asleep," 

He  laughed  gently.  "I  knew  all  the  time.  You  were 
afraid." 

It  was  so  plain  that  he  adored  her  for  being  afraid  that 
she  had  not  the  heart  to  correct  him. 

They  went  into  the  quiet  kitchen  at  the  inn  to  avoid 
the  two  or  three  idlers  that  in  Warcop  constituted  a 
crowd,  and  said  good-bye  there,  old  Charlotte,  the  cook, 
having  gone  for  a  look  at  the  bus. 

Very  solemnly,  feeling  as  if  they  stood  not  in  a  warm 
kitchen  but  on  some  shining  height,  they  said  good-bye, 
tears  in  their  eyes. 

"I  shall  be  back  in  June,"  George  said.  "Mr.  Fleming 
will  surely  give  me  a  month." 

Then  he  left  her,  standing  by  the  great  polished  stove. 


T 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HE  next  morning  the  Vicar  sent  up  to  Miss  Effie 
a   note   containing   a   letter   from   Lady   Pelter. 


Mrs.  Bridlegoose  has  gone  for  her  holiday,  as  usual 
[the  Vicar  wrote]  and  will  not  be  back  till  January  i5th. 
Elsie  Baker  does  very  well  as  a  stop-gap  for  me,  but  she  would 
not  be  able  to  make  Rachel  comfortable,  so  I  thought  I  could 
not  do  better  -than  send  poor  Blanche's  letter  to  you,  my  dear 
Miss  Effie 

Miss  Effie  read  the  two  letters  several  times,  her  lips, 
out  of  which  even  the  raspberry-color  had  of  late  years 
faded,  squeezed  into  a  wrinkled  bunch. 

Then  she  went  to  the  door  and  called  Miss  Flora. 

Miss  Flora,  who  was  making  a  particular  kind  of  jelly 
for  one  of  the  Skelton  children  who  had  broken  his  leg 
skating  at  the  three  bridges  on  Christmas  Eve,  came 
tripping  to  the  kitchen  door. 

"Yes,  Effie?" 

"I've  just  had  a  note  from  the  Vicar  that  I'd  like  to 
read  to  you," 

But  Miss  Flora's  jelly  had  arrived  at  a  critical  point  in 
its  evolution,  and  as  Esther  Oughtenshaw  had  gone  to 
Warcop  and  Nelly  was  busy  upstairs,  Miss  Effie  was 
forced  to  join  her  sister  in  the  kitchen. 

She  sat  down  in  the  sun  by  the  window  where  Esther 
Oughtenshaw's  pink  geranium  displayed  its  glories,  and 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  hope  the  dear  Vicar  isn't  ill,  Effie?"  Miss  Flora 

160 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

stood  stirring  the  jelly  over  the  fire,  her  long,  thin  body 
bent  in  an  almost  incredible  curve  as  she  drew  back  from 
the  stove. 

"No.  Oh,  no,  he's  not  ill.  A  sore  throat,  he  says, 
which" — Miss  Effie  added  with  an  air  of  conscious 
villainy — "I  suppose  means  some  new  book!" 

«0h,  Effie!" 

"Well,  that  doesn't  concern  us,  Flora — and  this 
letter  from  Lady  Pelter  apparently  does,  so  I'll  read  it 
to  you.  'My  dear  Arthur' — (it's  from  Planings,  they're 
there  for  the  winter) — '  I  am  in  great  distress  and  really 
don't  know  what  to  do' — (I'll  spare  you  the  under- 
linings,  Flora !) — '  so,  of  course,  I  write  to  you,  my  dear 
brother-in-law.' ' 

"The  dear  Vicar,"  murmured  Miss  Flora. 

"  'We  have  been  here  ever  since  October,' "  Miss  Effie 
went  on,  unmoved  by  the  apostrophe,  "  'and  although  it's 
the  dullest  place  in  the  world,  I  have  been  quite  happy  until 
now,  when  the  blow  has  fallen.  "What  I  have  done  to  de- 
serve such  a '  Oh,  bother,"  broke  off  Miss  Effie, 

"what  a  blithering  creature  she  is,  to  be  sure!  Let  me 
see.  Ah,  yes,  here  it  is — 'And  I  have  just  found  that 
Rachel  is  having  a  love-affair  with  a  young  man  in  the 
town,  with  the  son  of  a  doctor,  if  you  please.  Naturally, 
he  hasn't  a  penny — -.two  hundred  a  year,  I  believe,  from  his 
mother — but  the  silly  child  declares  she  is  going  to  marry 
him! 

"  'His  name,  my  dearest  Arthur,  is  Jackson.  Fancy 
my  poor  Charles's  daughter  going  through  life  as  Lady 
Rachel  Jackson!  Heaven  knows  I'm  not' — etc.,  etc., 
but — well  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  Flora,"  Miss  Effie 
announced,  laying  down  the  letter,  "she  wants  to  send 
Rachel  up  here  to  be  out  of  the  way,  and  the  Vicar 
can't  have  her  because  it's  Emily  Bridlegoose's  yearly 
holiday  and  there's  only  Mrs.  Baker  the  postmistress's 

161 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

sixteen-year  old  Elsie — you  know,  the  girl  with  the 
extraordinarily  fat  ankles? — to  do  the  work — so  that  he 
wants  us  to  take  her  in.  Rachel,  I  mean." 

Miss  Flora  poured  the  contents  of  her  saucepan  care- 
fully into  a  mould. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think,  Flora?"  Miss  Effie's  voice 
was  sharp.  "I  suppose  we  must?" 

"Of  course,  Effie.     And  Cuckoo  will  be  delighted." 

"Y-yes,  and  Cuckoo  will  soon  put  the  Jackson  business 
out  of  Rachel's  head!"  Miss  Effie,  at  this  thought, 
gave  her  own  head  a  little  satisfied  nod.  Miss  Flora 
went  to  the  stove  and,  drawing  a  jug  of  hot  water  from 
the  boiler,  disappeared  into  the  scullery.  Then,  still 
without  her  having  spoken,  Miss  Effie  heard  her  washing 
her  hands. 

As  time  on,  Miss  Effie  reflected,  Flora  seemed  more 
and  more  disposed  to  let  her  sister  make  all  the  necessary 
decisions  and  plans  of  their  lives.  She  grew  less  talkative 
too,  and  Miss  Effie  had  decided,  with  a  pang  of  pity,  that 
dear  Flora  had  finally  learnt  that  hers,  Miss  Effie's,  judg- 
ment, was  better  than  her  own. 

Grim  and  dry  as  she  was,  Miss  Effie  loved  her  sister — 
whom  she  had  not  kissed  since  the  day  of  Robert  Blundell's 
death  and  although  her  vanity  was  pleased  by  her  read- 
ing of  Miss  Flora's  deferring  to  her,  it  led  her  to  think 
that  Flora's  sweet  old  youthfulness  was  going;  that 
her  queer  little  gaiety,  her  fits  of  mirth  that  Miss  Effie 
had  formerly  condemned  as  "silly"  were  becoming  less 
and  less  frequent. 

Miss  Effie  was  sixty-seven,  and  Miss  Flora  sixty-nine, 
yet  Miss  Flora's  gentler  fibre  had  accustomed  everyone 
to  regard  her  as  the  younger  of  the  two. 

For  a  long  time  Miss  Effie  stood  staring  out  at  the 
winter  morning  through  the  green  mesh  of  che  geranium. 
She  had  realized  for  the  first  time,  though  she  had  long 

162 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

since  recognized,  the  fact  that  even  poor  Flora  was  now 
an  old  woman. 

Old  Age  had  come.  It  was  as  if  Old  Age  were  a  person, 
long  known  to  view  and  to-day,  for  the  first  time  become 
acquainted  with. 

Yes,  Flora  and  she  were  old. 

And  while  Miss  Flora  fluttered  and  skimmed  about 
the  kitchen,  singing  a  tuneless  little  song  under  her 
breath,  her  pretty  hair,  now  nearly  white,  hanging  in 
little  loose  tendrils  round  her  warm  brow,  Miss  Effie  went 
through  a  moment  of  that  horrid  experience  of  watching 
a  still  happy  person  on  whom  some  unsuspected  blow  is 
about  to  fall.  Flora  might  not,  possibly  did  not,  know 
that  she  was  old,  and  Miss  Effie  knew.  It  was  dreadful, 
and  Miss  Effie's  eyes,  the  irises  of  which  looked  like  dulled 
tortoise-shell,  burned  as  she  listened  to  the  poor  little 
song  and  watched  Miss  Flora  moving  about. 

Ought  she,  she  wondered  sincerely,  to  convey  to  Flora 
that  at  nine-and-sixty  a  woman  is  too  old  to  skip  and 
spring  and  glide  and  wave  her  hands  in  the  air? 

Before  she  had  decided  on  this  point,  Miss  Flora,  in  all 
innocence,  gave  one  of  her  highest  hops,  as  a  pleasant 
thought  struck  her.  "Poor  Cuckoo,"  she  exclaimed, 
"it  will  cheer  her  up  to  have  Rachel.  When  can  Rachel 
be  here,  Effie?" 

"Poor  Cuckoo?  Why  poor  Cuckoo?"  snapped 
Effie  in  her  gruffest  and  most  forbidding  voice,  "what 
is  she  poor  about,  with  her  two  hundred  a  year  and — 
and  her  youth?" 

Miss  Flora  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment  in  one  of 
her  absurd  "poised  for  flight"  attitudes,  as  Blundell  had 
called  them,  her  wide,  lucent,  loose-set  eyes  full  of 
distress,  and  then — they  never  referred  to  the  episode — 
her  pink  lips  moving  tremulously,  she  made  a  sort  of 
soft  dart  at  Miss  Effie  and  kissed  her. 

163 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Miss  Effie  never  knew  the  reason  of  this  kiss,  and  a 
moment  after  its  bestowal  she  saw  Miss  Flora,  in  her 
old  fur  coat,  apparently  being  blown  up  the  path  to  the 
Green  Bench. 

Rachel  Poole  arrived  two  days  later,  accompanied, 
as  usual,  by  the  stupid  but  apparently  faithful  Jeanne, 
and  the  meeting  between  Rachel  and  Cuckoo  had,  Miss 
Flora  noticed,  a  kind  of  high  solemnity  about  it.  It 
seemed  less  a  meeting  than  a  consecration. 

And  Miss  Flora  was  right,  for  the  young  creatures 
were  both  appreciating  and  acting  up  to  the  full  romance 
of  the  situation.  Rachel  was  the  mother-persecuted  dam- 
sel of  all  drama,  banished  from  her  home  to  tear  her 
heart  from  her  lover,  and  Cuckoo  was  her  friend, 
meant,  at  least  by  the  oppressed  one  herself,  to  be  confi- 
dante and  sympathizer  as  well.  Miss  Blundell,  despite  her 
views  about  matrimony,  was,  perhaps  because  of  George, 
fairly  satisfactory  in  her  new  role,  although  she  felt  not 
the  least  need  to  exact  similar  tribute  from  Rachel.  At  the 
end  of  the  third  day — it  was  her  first  opportunity,  for 
Rachel's  volubility  about  herself  was  indefatigable — she 
told  Rachel  that  she  was  going  to  marry  George  Loxley 
some  day,  but  she  invited  no  speculations  about  her 
future,  and  no  raptures,  so  Rachel  very  soon  gave  up 
mentioning  the  subject. 

Cuckoo  was  very  queer,  and,  besides,  Rachel's  own 
affairs  were  infinitely  the  more  interesting.  So  by  the 
hour  the  two  girls  talked  about  Rachel  and  her  enchant- 
ing troubles.  They  discussed  Love,  Alison  Jackson 
(Rachel's  Fate  was  named  Alison),  the  disgusting  mer- 
cenariness  of  Lady  Pelter,  the  ease  and  gaiety  with 
which  a  man  and  a  woman — Rachel  loved  speaking  of 
herself  as  a  woman,  but  the  term  made  Cuckoo  shy — 
who  truly  loved  each  other  could  subsist  on  two-hundred 

164 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  year.  These  things  and  many  other  collateral  ones 
they  wore  threadbare.  , 

Cuckoo  had  throughout  an  uneasy  feeling  that,  but 
for  her  subjection  to  that  irresistible  charm  of  George's, 
she  would  have  sided  in  the  matter  with  Lady  Pelter, 
but  there  was  no  good  in  reminding  the  ecstatic  Rachel 
of  this. 

They  decided  gravely  that  the  law  of  entail  was  a 
most  iniquitous  thing,  for  was  not  Angus,  Lord  Pelter, 
in  a  few  years  to  come  into  a  property  worth  four 
thousand  pounds  a  year? 

They  talked  of  Alison's  Blue,  of  his  delicious  way  of 
saying  wevver  for  weather,  rawer  for  rather,  etc.,  and,  in 
this  Cuckoo  as  well  as  Rachel  absolutely  believed,  of  the 
sublime  certainty  that  true  Love  can  never  die. 

The  moors,  wind-swept  and  vast,  beheld  the  two  in 
their  walks,  their  young  heads  nodding  heavily  with 
wisdom;  the  early-year  sunshine  on  their  dreams  lent 
them  something  unforgettable. 

Once  they  walked  over  to  Clavers  to  see  Mary  Watlass, 
who  had  known  Rachel  as  a  baby  and  who  made  an  ad- 
mirable listener  to  the  great  story.  While  Rachel  sat 
by  the  fire,  conscientiously  neglecting  not  the  smallest 
detail  as  she  poured  out  what  she  honestly  considered 
her  troubles,  Cuckoo  stole  quietly  out  and  wandered 
up  the  road  along  which  she  and  George  had  made  their 
way  home  on  Christmas  Day. 

How  sad  she  had  been,  how  heavy — literally,  materially 
heavy — her  heart  had  been. 

Just  by  that  old  hayrick,  with  its  sail-cloth  cover, 
George  had  looked  at  her  with  such  troubled  eyes! 

Dear  George.  Her  queer,  one-sided  little  mouth  curved 
into  softness  as  she  took  his  last  letter  from  her  pocket 
and  read  it  while  she  walked.  It  is  an  odd  thing  that 
whereas  all  the  romance  of  Rachel's  difficulties  appealed 

165 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

to  her  strongly,  she  had  none  of  the  same  feeling  about 
her  own  engagement. 

She  had  enjoyed  the  tale  of  how  Rachel  received  Mr. 
Jackson's  letters  through  the  intermediary  services  of 
the  Planings'  housekeeper,  but  she  was  very  glad  that 
her  own  love-letters  came  to  her  without  the  smallest 
difficulty,  owing  to  the  fact  that  old  Jimmy  Bridlegoose, 
the  postman,  brought  the  Roseroofs'  post  only  as  far 
as  the  letter-box  nailed  to  the  may-tree  under  which 
poor  Chris  Greening  had  waited  one  morning  for  the 
present  Mrs.  Isaac  Vosper. 

It  had  always  been  Cuckoo's  duty  to  go  down  by  the 
kitchen-garden  gate  to  the  may-tree  every  morning  at 
half-past  nine,  to  open  the  box  and  bring  up  the  letters. 

The  key  of  the  box  was  fastened  to  the  little  curb 
bracelet  given  to  her  by  the  aunts  on  her  sixteenth 
birthday. 

So  her  daily  letter  from  George  had  never  been  seen  by 
anyone  but  herself. 

His  letters  were  inexpressibly  dear  to  her;  tender, 
proud  little  letters  they  were,  full  of  trust  and  hope.  She 
loved  them  something  as  she  loved  George  himself,  with 
an  indescribable  mixture  of  protectingness  and  pity. 

And  she  saw  with  a  kind  of  hushed  feeling  of  amuse- 
ment that  George  as  strongly  wanted  to  protect  and  shield 
her  as  she  wanted  to  protect  and  shield  him.  He  wrote 
about  her  thinness  just  as  she  wrote  about  his  colds,  and 
his  indigestion ;  he  spoke  about  his  little  love  of  the  milky 
eyes  exactly  as  she  wrote  about  his  blessed  rabbit-nose. 
It  was  wonderful! 

He  called  her  his  darling,  bonny  blessing,  and  she  loved 
to  be  called  his  darling,  bonny  blessing.  She  was  very 
,  happy. 

George,  of  course,  had  been  told  about  Mr.  Jackson 
and  had  written  Rachel  a  note  of  sympathy  and  encour- 

166 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

agement,  and  in  the  last  letter  Cuckoo  now  re-read  what 
her  lover  had  suggested  for  the  future.  This  wonderful 
idea  was  nothing  less  than  that  the  young  couples  should 
settle  in  two  neighboring  cottages  in  a  pleasant  suburb, 
somewhere.  For,  and  this  was  a  great  surprise,  George 
had  decided  to  devote  himself  to  painting ! 

Hampstead  Heath,  he  wrote,  would  be  the  place,  of 
course,  but  Golder's  Green  could  be  made  to  do.  He  had 
sent  for  and  studied  prospectuses  of  the  latter  paradise, 
and  wanted  to  know  what  Cuckoo  thought  of  the  plan? 

He  had,  all  told,  nearly  two  hundred  a  year,  and  there 
was  no  doubt  of  their  being,  in  a  modest  way,  exceedingly 
comfortable  on  that  sum.  Also,  he  could  see  no  reason 
for  putting  off  their  marriage.  Mr.  Fleming  knew  that 
he  was  going  to  give  up  his  job  at  the  bank  and  thor- 
oughly sympathized  with  him.  "He  says  lots  of  men  can't 
stand  the  close  confinement,  and  that  Hampstead  is  nearly 
as  good  as  Wiskedale " 

Dear  George — what  a  darling  he  was,  and  what  a  baby ! 
For  Cuckoo,  although  her  ambitious  plans  had  been  shat- 
tered by  the  force  of  her  own  youth,  was  by  no  means 
as  easy  about  the  future  as  George  was. 

Neither  was  she  purified  of  all  regrets  for  past  dreams. 
She  loved  George,  but  she  loved  him  against  her  will,  and 
there  were  times  when  she  wished  that  she  had  not  caught 
him  in  her  mad  race  back  from  Thornby  Lodge  that  day. 

If  she  had  missed  him,  she  had  more  than  once  told  her- 
self, she  "would  have  been  all  right  in  a  few  days,"  and 
her  old,  well-considered  dreams  would  in  time  have 
ripened. 

That  blowy  afternoon,  as  she  waited  for  Rachel  to  have 
done  with  old  Mary,  Cuckoo  decided  that  she  was  just  a 
little  tired  of  Mr.  Alison  Jackson  and  that  she  did  almost 
wish  that  she  had  not  seen  George  again! 

167 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

After  all,  there  were  in  the  world  things  beside  Love. 
She  knew,  although  George  did  not,  that  life  in  a  London 
suburb  on  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  would  not  be  a  life 
of  ample  pleasures  and  generous  distractions.  However, 
she  sighed  as  Rachel,  satiated  with  self-revelation,  came 
out  from  the  cottage ;  it  couldn't  be  helped  now ;  the  mis- 
chief was  done,  and  George  was  the  sweetest,  dearest 
thing  in  the  whole  world. 

George  did  not  write  the  next  day,  nor  the  next,  and  on 
Sunday,  after  church,  the  Vicar  told  the  Roseroofs*  la- 
dies that  his  grandson  had  been  ill. 

"One  of  his  very  bad  throats,  I  am  afraid,"  the  old 
man  said  with  a  sigh.  "I  wish  he  could  be  in  a  better 
climate — you  know,  his  poor  mother  died  of  laryngal  con- 
sumption  " 

After  lunch  Cuckoo  dragged  the  indolent  Rachel  over 
the  Edge  and  across  the  High  Moor  to  Flaye,  where  she 
roused  the  sleepy  postmistress  and  wrote  out  a  telegram 
to  be  sent  the  very  moment  the  post-office  was  open  on 
the  Monday  morning. 

Cuckoo  was  nervous  with  the  nervousness  of  a  mother 
over  an  absent  child  who  is  ill.  Her  scarlet  mouth, 
thinned  and  drawn,  looked  old;  her  eyes  seemed  to  have 
shrunk  back  under  her  brows. 

"It's  only  a  sore  throat,"  expostulated  the  ungrate- 
fully, but  not  unreasonably,  bored  Rachel.  "Once 
Alison  was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  I  had  no  news 
for  twenty-four  hours.  You  don't  know  what  that  was, 
Nicky — what  I  went  through!" 

"George  is  very  delicate,"  returned  Cuckoo  shortly. 

When  the  postmistress  (she  was  a  Skelton,  and  her 
mother  had  been  a  Greening)  had  promised  several  times 
to  send  the  wire  by  8.30  the  next  morning,  and  also,  when 
the  answer  came,  to  send  little  David,  her  son,  to  bring  it 
over  and  put  it  into  the  letter  box — he  was  on  no  account 

168 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

to  bring  it  to  the  house  on  pain  of  losing  his  promised 
sixpence — the  two  girls  walked  back  to  Roseroofs.  Ra- 
chel talked  hard  all  the  way,  about  Alison  and  his  various 
illnesses  and  hair-breadth  escapes,  not  ceasing  at  accom- 
plished mishaps  but  venturing  into  the  realms  of  specu- 
lation and  wondering;  for  instance,  what  she  should  do 
if  he  ever  had  typhoid  fever  or  lost  a  leg  in  a  railway  ac- 
cident. 

Cuckoo  walked  along  in  almost  unbroken  silence.  More 
than  ever,  now  that  he  was  ill,  did  she  love  George.  With 
a  passion  utterly  unknown  to  her  before,  did  she  long  to 
be  physically  near  him.  She  wanted  to  hold  him  in  her 
arms,  to  stroke  that  soft,  wonderful  hair  of  his,  to  give 
him  his  medicine,  to  give  him  broth  and  milk.  .  .  . 

" — In  spite  of  all  that  they  could  say,"  Rachel  was 
declaring  dramatically,  "I  would.  Nothing  on  earth  could 
prevent  me,  the  poor  angel." 

"Couldn't  prevent  you  what?"  snapped  Cuckoo. 

Rachel  looked  at  her  reproachfully.  "I  don't  believe 
you've  been  listening  to  a  word  I  said:  marrying  him  if 
he  was  paralyzed  and  had  to  be  pushed  about  in  a  bath- 
chair." 

Cuckoo  did  not  answer.  She  was  counting  the  hours 
till  she  could  have  an  answer  to  her  wire,  which  in  its  cold 
•phraseology:  "Anxious,  please  wire  here. — CUCKOO,"  was 
only  half  meant  to  deceive  the  friendly  and  humane  Mrs. 
Skelton. 

Monday  afternoon,  at  their  third  visit  to  the  may-tree, 
the  little,  longed-for,  tangerine-colored  envelope  was 
found  in  the  box.  Cuckoo  walked  away  from  her  com- 
panion and  stood  with  her  back  turned  while  she  read  it. 

Don't  worry,  darling — much  better.     Writing. — GEORGE. 

"Idiot !"  exclaimed  Cuckoo,  her  voice  sharp  with  anger. 

169* 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Good  gracious,  Nicky!    What  is  it?" 

"  'Darling !'  To  go  and  put  'darling'  in  a  wire,"  Cuckoo 
answered,  tearing  the  paper  to  bits  and  slipping  it  into 
her  pocket.  "Now  everyone  in  Flaye  will  know,  and 
everyone  in  Warcop,  too.  Mrs.  Skelton  was  a  Greening, 
and  her  daughter's  husband,  John  Oughtenshaw,  keeps 
the  draper's  shop  at  Warcop.  Oh,  the — the  fool!" 

Poor  Rachel  was  aghast.  Not  thus  did  she  treat  her 
Alison's  telegrams!  And  the  worst  was  that  she  knew 
that  Cuckoo  was  absolutely  sincere  in  her  scorn  and 
anger. 

"How  can  you  say  such  awful  things,  Cuckoo  Blun- 
dell?"  she  gasped.  "I  don't  believe  you  love  him  at  all. 
Alison " 

"Oh,  bother  Alison.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  Alison.  He 
has  no  chin,  anyhow.  And  I'm  sick  of  George,  and  of 
you — and  of  myself,  and  everybody.  Tell  the  Aunts  I 
sha'n't  be  home  for  lunch,  will  you?  I'm  going  for  a 
tramp." 

And  off  she  sprinted  (Rachel's  word)  up  the  hill,  past 
the  Bench,  and  onwards,  leaving  the  bewildered  and  in- 
sulted Rachel  staring  after  her.  Cuckoo's  thoughts  as 
she  walked — one  might  almost  say  flew — over  the  wet 
country-side,  were  difficult  to  analyze.  She  did  love 
George  Loxley,  and  her  misery  when  he  was  ill  had  been 
nearly  unendurable.  Why  then,  now  that  he  was  well, 
should  she  be  so  angry?  To  be  sure,  their  engagement 
was  to  be  kept  a  secret  until  Easter,  and  Mrs.  Skelton  the 
postmistress  was  not  only  sworn  to  keep  telegraph  secrets, 
but  a  kind  and  worthy  woman,  and  was  not  likely  to  give 
Cuckoo  away. 

Vaguely  the  girl  felt  her  resentment  was  not  wholly 
towards  the  unlucky  word  in  the  telegram:  it  lay  deeper 
than  that,  and  was  directed  towards  herself  as  well.  She 
was  in  a  whirl  of  anger,  not  only  because  George  had 

170 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

called  her  darling  in  a  telegram,  but  because  her  own 
misery  over  his  illness  had  strained  her  nerves  to  break- 
ing-point, and  because  she  loathed  being  so  weak  as  to  be 
unable  to  bear  with  calmness  the  fact  that  anyone  on  earth 
had  a  sore  throat! 

Deeper  than  this,  even,  lay  the  roots  of  her  mental  con- 
dition. She  resented,  with  the  most  unchildlike  bitterness, 
the  fact  that  this  feeling  for  George  should  so  utterly  have 
upset  her  plans  for  the  future.  Her  love  was  a  weakness, 
not  a  strength;  a  disease,  not  a  fine  condition  of  soul. 
By  the  time  she  had  skirted  Flaye,  made  a  big  half-circle 
round  Clavers,  and  was  half-way  up  Laverock,  her  hur- 
rying, impatient  mind  had  nearly  reached  its  goal,  and 
when,  after  a  big  climb,  too  steep  for  any  consecutive 
thought,  she  stood  at  the  edge  of  an  old  lead  mine,  a 
rough  hollow,  filled  with  piles  of  stone  and  coarse  gravelly 
soil,  she  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  waited  for  her  breath 
and  mental  clarity  to  come  to  her.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
done  a  mental,  as  well  as  a  steep  physical,  climb  and  as 
if  she  had  only  to  wait  for  quiet  breathing,  to  be  able  to 
see  clearly  that  for  which  she  had  been  struggling. 

And  she  was  right.  Gradually,  as  her  panting  breatK 
and  hurrying  brain  slackened,  she  saw,  clearly  and  well. 

Below  her  lay  Wiskedale,  the  beck  in  the  middle ;  oppo- 
site lay  Widdybank  Bottom,  with  its  great  cluster  of 
leafless  trees;  the  church,  Vicarage  and  village  being 
hidden  just  beneath  where  she  stood.  Opposite  her 
stretched  Meldon  Edge,  across  which,  two  hours  before, 
she  had  walked.  On  to  the  right  lay  Warcop,  in  its  tangle 
of  river  and  bridges,  and  beyond  the  broad  bend  of  the 
dale,  Middleton. 

She  studied  all  the  familiar  landmarks  for  a  few  min- 
utes and  turned  to  her  mind-scape. 

She  loved  George  Loxley,  but  it  was  against  her 
'interests  and  against  her  will  to  love  him.  And  she  wished 

171 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

from  the  bottom  of  her  heart  that  she  didn't.  It  was  a 
mistake;  it  was  worse  than  a  mistake:  it  was  almost  a 
betrayal  of  herself  to  have  let  herself  go  in  such  a  sense- 
less and  ridiculous  way.  She  hated  herself  for  having 
done  it.  That,  however,  was  now  past,  and  George  was 
away  and  going  to  stay  away,  and  therein  lay  her  salva- 
tion. She  must  for  her  own  sake  forget  him  and  forget 
him  she  would. 

After  standing  for  a  long  time  thus  instinctively  fortify- 
ing herself,  she  started  homewards,  her  mouth  firmly  set, 
her  brows  drawo  down  in  her  old  scowl  of  determination. 
She  loved  him,  she  could  not  help  it,  but  she  could  and 
would  refuse  to  let  this  weakness  of  hers  ruin  her  life. 
It  would  be  madness  to  marry  him  and  she  would  not 
marry  him.  He  must  suffer,  and  she  would  suffer,  but 
they  must  endure  the  pain.  And  the  first  thing  to  be 
done  was  to  forget  him. 

She  would  begin  at  once. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  next  day  it  rained,  and  after  lunch  the  four 
ladies  settled  down  for  an  afternoon's  work  in- 
doors. Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora,  according  to 
their  custom,  were  shut  each  in  her  own  room  to  do  what 
they  called  "their  private  mending";  and  the  two  girls 
were  in  the  drawing-room,  one  on  each  side  of  the  fire. 
They  were,  despite  Cuckoo's  rudeness  the  previous  day, 
quite  on  their  usual  terms,  for,  on  her  return  from  her 
walk,  Cuckoo  had  plainly  shown  that  she  had  forgotten 
that  she  had  given  cause  for  offence,  and  Rachel  was 
afraid  to  remind  her  of  her  outburst.  Cuckoo  was  pale 
and  looked  very  tired,  but  Miss  Effie  explained  at  dinner 
that  the  walk  she  had  taken  was  enough  to  make  a  strong 
man  weary,  and  no  one  said  any  more. 

That  morning  the  girls  had  a  perfectly  uneventful  walk 
to  Warcop,  during  which  Rachel  gradually  trickled  back 
to  her  talk  about  Alison,  and  Cuckoo  listened  with  a  sym- 
pathy that  of  late  had  been,  Rachel  considered,  somewhat 
lacking. 

Alison's  letter  that  morning  had  been  very  delightful, 
full  of  quotations  from  Keats  and  Byron  and  Ella  Wheeler 
Willcox  and  other  great  poets,  so  that  even  Cuckoo  was 
impressed  by  it.  She,  too,  had  had  a  letter,  a  long  letter 
Rachel  knew,  from  George,  but  she  had  not 'communicated 
any  of  its  contents  to  her  friend,  and  Rachel  had  not 
bothered  to  ask  questions.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Rachel 
found  George  rather  boring  and  Cuckoo's  love-affair  quite 
devoid  of  the  delicious  cloud  of  romance  that  overhung 
and  enriched  her  own.  Cuckoo  had  studied  George's  let- 

173 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ter  very  carefully,  and  despite  her  splendid  resolutions  of 
the  evening  before  it  had  weakened  her  a  little.  There 
was  something  so  touching,  what  she  considered  so  child- 
like, in  his  absolute  trust  in  her;  she,  knowing  herself  to 
be  by  no  means  so  trustworthy  in  this  matter  as  he  be- 
lieved, could  not  resist  a  rush  of  helpless  tenderness  to- 
wards him  as  she  read.  She  was,  moreover,  thoroughly 
tired  out  and  inclined  for  the  moment  to  put  thought  aside 
and  let  matters  take  their  own  course.  She  knew.,  or 
thought  she  knew,  that  she  was  a  fool  to  love  George,  and 
yet  for  that  one  afternoon  she  could  not  help  loving  him. 
So  his  letter  was  in  her  pocket  as  she  went  downstairs  and 
joined  Rachel,  who  was  busy  with  a  catalogue  from  Har- 
rod's,  marking  with  red  ink  a  number  of  things  she  con- 
sidered indispensable  to  her  future  home. 

Cuckoo  cast  a  disparaging  eye  over  this  list.  She  her- 
self would  hate  buying  pots  and  pans  and  brooms,  and 
Rachel's  monologue  on  the  relative  merits  of  two  kinds 
of  brass  polish  left  her  completely  cold. 

"Things  like  that,"  she  declared,  "ought  not  to  cost 
money,  they  ought  to  grow  on  bushes.  Bah!  how  detest- 
able it  is  to  be  poor !" 

However,  a  moment  later  she  had  settled  to  her  darn- 
ing, allowing  her  thoughts  to  drift  to  Glasgow  without 
further  resistance.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to 
marry  George,  and  she  was  not  going  to  marry  him,  but 
just  for  this  one  afternoon,  when  she  was  so  tired,  she 
wouldn't  worry.  Suppose,  after  all,  she  was  not  to  "have 
things";  suppose  she  was  to  do  without  things?  Dear 
George!  It  is  possible,  although  she  did  not  suspect  it 
and  would  have  resented  help  from  such  a  quarter,  that 
the  fact  that  the  spoiled  Rachel  should  be  giving  up  her 
superior  possibilities  for  the  sake  of  a  young  man  as  poor 
as  George  Loxley,  inclined  her  the  less  to  face  the  neces- 
sity for  giving  George  up.  Rachel  was  a  goose,  but  she 

174 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

was  a  goose  of  title,  a  goose  belonging  to  the  highest  of 
flocks,  yet  there  was  no  doubt  that  luxurious  and  pam- 
pered as  she  had  always  been,  she  was  marrying  her  poor 
man,  not  with  Cuckoo's  ceding  to  an  irresistible  force,  but 
gladly,  even  proudly,  and  for  this  superiority  Cuckoo  did 
not  love  her  the  more. 

Looking  up  from  her  stocking  the  younger  girl  studied 
Rachel's  unconscious  face.  Rachel  was  darning  her  first 
stocking  under  her  friend's  guidance,  and  it  was  clear  to 
Cuckoo's  shrewd  eyes  that  only  theoretically  was  it  a 
stocking  of  her  own — that,  so  far  as  Rachel  was  con- 
cerned, it  was  in  reality  a  sock  of  Mr.  Jackson's.  After  a 
moment's  reflection,  Cuckoo  decided  that  she  herself  might 
just  as  well  try  to  believe  that  afternoon  that  she  was 
darning  George's  socks,  and  enjoying  darning  them,  and 
being,  despite  her  wavering  in  the  matter  of  her  engage- 
ment, fundamentally  a  thorough-going,  determined  crea- 
ture, she  gave  up  the  next  few  minutes  to  trying  to'  emu- 
late Rachel's  mood  of  high  romance.  It  was  in  the  midst 
of  this  mood  of  emulation,  when  she  had  succeeded  in  con- 
juring up  the  feeling  of  inexpressible  tenderness  that  was 
her  culmination  of  love,  that  Nellie  brought  in  the  tele- 
gram. Cuckoo,  with  a  flash  of  terror  lest  her  indiscreet 
lover  should  have  gone  and  wired  "darling,"  or  even 
worse,  direct  to  Warcop,  half  started  out  of  her  seat  and 
held  out  her  hand.  Nellie  shook  her  head. 

"Not  for  you,  Miss  Cuckoo.     It  is  for  Lady  Rachel." 

Rachel,  very  pale,  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read  the 
message,  turned  pink,  and  then  a  tremendous,  deep  flush 
overran  the  pinkness,  as  a  flood  might  sweep  over  a  dew- 
wet  meadow. 

"Oh,  Nicky!" 

"What  is  it,  Ray?" 

"Yes,"  echoed  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora,  who,  being 
told  by  Esther  Oughtenshaw  that  "f  telegraph  lad  was 

175 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

cooming  oop  t'  hill,"  had  hastened  down  to  hear  the  news. 
Rachel  paid  no  attention  to  them;  instead  she  gave  the 
telegram  to  Cuckoo,  and  then,  throwing  her  arms  round 
Miss  Effie's  neck — (Miss  Effie  stood  nearer  to  her  than 
Miss  Flora)  she  kissed  that  good  lady  soundly. 

"To  Paris?" 

"To  Paris,  Nickums,  to  Paris,  and  no  mamma!  Just 
think  of  all  the  things  she  will  give  me !" 

Then,  more  quietly,  Rachel  explained  to  her  older 
hostesses  that  she  must  leave  that  very  day,  by  the  four 
o'clock  bus;  or  no,  she  could  get  the  "Grouse"  fly;  that 
her  sister,  Lady  Rosamund  Brinkley,  was  going  to  Paris 
for  a  month,  and  that  Phil,  her  husband,  who  really  was 
rather  a  love  after  all,  was  allowing  her  to  take  Rachel  too. 

"He's  paying  all  my  expies,  of  course,  or  mamma 
wouldn't  let  me  go,  and  he's  frightfully  generous  to  Rosie, 
and  she's  a  sweet  pet,  so  I  shall  come  back  with  some  really 
decent  clothes." 

The  disagreeable  Jeanne  was  sen!;  to  pack,  and  Nellie 
flew  down  for  the  "Grouse"  fly. 

Cuckoo  listened  quietly  to  Rachel's  babble  of  joy  and 
plans.  She  was  very  pale  and  breathed  hard,  as  if  she 
had  been  running.  When  the  girls  were  alone  and  Rachel 
was  enlarging  on  her  ideas  for  evening  frocks  which  she 
meant  to  get  in  the  rue  de  la  Paix — no  "clever  little 
woman"  for  her — Cuckoo  at  last  spoke. 

"And  will  you  wear  these  grand  frocks  in  the  cottage 
for  Alison's  benefit?" 

"How  disagreeable  of  you,  Nicky!  Why  shouldn't  I 
have  pretty  clothes,  even  though  we  are  poor?  It's  only 
very  silly  women,"  she  added,  with  an  air  of  tremendous 
wisdom,  "who  give  up  looking  nice  when  they  are  mar- 
ried. 7,"  she  went  on  proudly,  delighted  with  her  entirely 
exceptional  solution  to  the  quandary,  "shall  always  look 
my  best  for  my  husband." 

176 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  nodded. 

"Quite  right,  only — most  of  these  frocks,  I  should  think, 
would  do  only  for  the  very  smartest  balls." 

Rachel's  eyelashes,  which,  embellishment  she  already 
darkened  with  a  little  pencil,  were  wet.  Hers  was  the 
gift  of  the  facile  tear. 

"I  think  you  are  very  unkind,"  she  declared. 
"There's  the  Season  coming,  isn't  there? — and  we  aren't 
going  to  be  married  till  September,  anyhow.  Anyone 
would  think  that  you  were  jealous,  Cuckoo,"  and  she 
marched  upstairs,  leaving  Cuckoo  face  to  face  with  the 
unpleasant  fact  that  the  indirect  accusation  was  true. 
She  was  jealous,  painfully,  bitterly,  furiously  jealous; 
jealous,  not  only  of  Rachel's  prospective  new  frocks,  but 
of  her  month  in  Paris;  of  the  things  she  would  see,  the 
new  and  interesting  people  she  would  meet,  the  very  things 
she  would  have  to  eat!  Jealous  of  all  these  little  things, 
but  above  all  jealous  of  the  elder  girl's  whole  life  and  its 
conditions.  Rachel  was  to  have  the  "Season,"  balls,  din- 
ners, admirers  and  theaters,  and  she,  Cuckoo,  was  to  have, 
nothing,  just  as  she  had  always  had  nothing  at  Roseroofs. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  there  in  the  shabby,  faded  draw- 
ing-room, hating  Roseroofs  and  all  that  belonged  to  it 
with  a  strength  of  hatred  that  most  people  luckily  go 
to  their  grave  without  feeling,  and  even  when  the  thought 
of  George  came  to  her,  she  only  frowned  with  impatience 
as  if  a  fly  were  buzzing  in  her  face.  Rachel  had  Alison 
^besides  all  the  other  things,  so  her,  Cuckoo's,  possession  of 
George,  did  nothing  to  even  things  up.  Rachel  was  rich, 
in  everything  rich,  and  she,  Cuckoo,  was  poor,  vilely  and 
miserably  poor.  She  still  stood  there,  the  stocking  she 
had  been  darning  stretched  over  her  left  hand,  when  Ra- 
chel came  back. 

"Oh,  Nicky  dear,"  Rachel  said,  kissing  her.  "I 
didn't  mean  it,  I'm  so  sorry." 

177 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Didn't  mean  what  ?"  growled  Cuckoo,  in  the  voice  that 
had  so  amused  her  father. 

"That — that  you  were  jealous;  of  course  I  didn't  mean 
it.  Come  along  upstairs,  darling " 

But  Cuckoo  didn't  care  a  fig  whether  Rachel  had 
meant  it  or  not.  It  was  true.  She  was  jealous,  and  she 
knew  that  Rachel's  extreme  affectionateness  and  generos- 
ity of  words  meant  only  that  Rachel  was  violently,  ir- 
repressibly  happy.  Rachel  gave  her  two  frocks,  one  of 
her  best  nightgowns,  four  pairs  of  silk  stockings,  and  a 
hat,  and  Cuckoo  accepted  them  with  the  proper  expres- 
sions of  gratitude  but  without  enthusiasm.  They  were 
given,  she  knew,  only  because  Rachel  was  so  soon  to  have 
new  and  more  beautiful  ones.  They  were  like  Aunt  Mar- 
cia's  annual  offerings  to  her  sisters — Tads. 

When  the  old  fly  had  lumbered  off  in  plenty  of  time  to 
catch  the  train,  and  Rachel's  waving  hand  had  finally 
disappeared,  Cuckoo  went  back  to  the  house  and  up  to  her 
room.  The  Tads  lay  on  her  bed.  They  were  undoubtedly 
the  very  best  of  their  kind,  but  Tads  they  were,  and  the 
sight  of  them  filled  their  new  owner  with  a  kind  of  cold 
rage.  They  seemed  to  be  a  sort*  of  prophecy  and  symbol 
of  her  life  as  it  was  to  be.  Nothing  fine  and  beautiful  and 
first-hand  was  to  be  hers — only  Tads.  Her  aunts  were 
good  and  kind  to  her,  but  they  were  not  her  father  and 
mother,  and  thus  they,  too,  were  Tads;  Roseroofs  was 
small  and  humble,  but  to  the  aunts  it  was  a  real  home; 
to  her,  Cuckoo,  who  didn't  really  belong  there,  it  too  was 
a  Tad,  and  worse,  worse  than  all,  George  was  a  Tad. 
Yes,  she  loved  him  because  she  couldn't  help  it — oh,  his 
dear  rabbit-nose ! — but  he  had  no  money,  he  had  no  posi- 
tion, he  had  no  looks,  he  had  really  not  even  proper  health, 
so  he  was  a  Tad. 

At  last,  overwhelmed,  beaten  down,  buffeted  as  if  by 

178 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  great  storm,  the  girl  lay  prone  on  the  bed  and  cried. 

Mrs.  Skelton,  the  postmistress  of  Flaye,  was  in  her 
kitchen  getting  the  supper  ready,  about  half-past  six  that 
evening.  The  door  between  the  kitchen,  which  was 
"home,"  and  the  front  room  belonging  to  the  King, 
as  the  children  and  grandchildren  thought,  was  open, 
but  the  good  woman  was  not  expecting  any  more  cus- 
tomers that  day.  It  had  been  a  busy  day,  for  she  had 
sent  four  telegrams  and  sold  two  postal  orders,  one 
for  four  pounds,  as  well  as  in  all  nearly  three  shillings'- 
worth  of  penny  and  half-penny  stamps,  but  the  day  was 
over  now,  and  in  an  hour  and  a  half  Mrs.  Skelton  would 
unhang  the  telephone  receiver  and  bar  the  door  and  be- 
long to  her  family  again.  The  two  youngest  Skeltons 
sat  by  the  table  in  the  lamplight  studying  their  next  day's 
lessons,  and  in  the  little  old  oak  cradle  lay,  sucking  its 
comforter,  the  youngest  of  Oughtenshaw  the  Warcop 
draper's  five  daughters. 

It  was  a  pleasant  time  of  day  and  Mrs.  Skelton  re- 
flected as  she  beat  up  some  eggs  in  a  bowl,  her  daughter 
Sarah,  Mrs.  Oughtenshaw,  who  was  paying  her  a  visit 
of  a  week  for  a  change  of  air,  would  soon  be  oop  over 
from  her  visit  of  inspection  to  the  shop  on  the  Green. 
Sarah  would  be  sure  to  bring  all  t'  Warcop  news,  and  they 
would  have  a  good  talk  after  supper.  At  that  point  in 
her  reflections,  the  post-office  door  opened  with  a  sharp 
tinkle  of  its  pendant  bell,  and  someone  came  in.  Mrs. 
Skelton  took  off  her  apron  and  went  behind  the  counter. 

"Good  evening,"  she  began  civilly,  to  break  off  in  sur- 
prise. "Why,  it's  Miss  Effie!  Lord,  save  us,  Miss  Effie, 
'as  anything  'appened?" 

Miss  Effie,  who  wore  a  black  woollen  scarf  over  her 
hat  and  had  turned  up  the  collar  of  her  coat,  shook  her 
head. 

179 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"No,  Mary,  nothing  at  all.  I  just  want  to  send  a  tele- 
gram '» 

Mrs.  Skelton  produced  the  forms  and  the  usual  richly- 
encrusted  pens  of  country  post-offices,  and  said  no  more. 
She  was  burning  with  curiosity,  however.  Never  in  her 
life  had  Miss  Effie  sent  a  telegram  from  Flaye.  Moreover, 
Flaye  was  a  good  five  miles  from  Roseroofs — whereas  from 
Roseroofs  to  Warcop  it  was  barely  a  mile — a  heavy  rain 
was  beating  down  and  it  was  black  as  night,  but  Miss 
Effie's  grim  face  did  not  invite  questions. 

Miss  Effie  wrote  out  her  message  slowly,  with  the  great 
distinctness  of  people  who  rarely  send  telegrams.  Then 
she  waited  while  Mrs.  Skelton  counted  the  words,  and 
paid,  and  the  good  woman  suggested  her  coming  into  the 
kitchen  and  standing  a  moment  by  the  fire. 

"You're  wet  through,  Miss  Effie."  But  Miss  Effie 
wouldn't  stay ;  she  was  in  a  hurry. 

Mrs.  Skelton  held  the  door  open  while  Miss  Effie  put 
up  her  umbrella,  and  the  two  women  shouted  a  final  good- 
night to  each  other  against  the  great  voice  of  the  gale. 
Then  Miss  Effie  was  swallowed  by  the  darkness. 

Mrs.  Skelton  closed  the  door,  took  a  look  at  the  baby 
to  see  that  it  was  still  manipulating  the  comforter  prop- 
erly, and  then  went  back  to  the  office  to  send  the  tele- 
gram. She  had  just  got  Middleton  Post  Office  on  the 
telephone  when  the  door  again  opened,  this  time  with  such 
a  bang  that  the  startled  woman  dropped  the  receiver. 

"Good  evening,  Mary.  It's  only  me,  Miss  Flora ;  did  I 
frighten  you?" 

Miss  Flora  pulled  the  dripping  blue  veil  from  her  face 
and  took  off  her  gloves. 

"It's  about  the  wire  Miss  Effie  just  sent.  We've  de- 
cided to  change  it  a  little,"  and  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Miss  Flowra,  it's  against  flaw.     Couldn't  I  just 

go  and  call  Miss  Effie  back?    Tommy  could  go " 

180 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Miss  Effie  is  half-way  across  the  moor  by  now, 
Tommy  could  never  find  her.  Come,  Mary,  don't  be 
foolish!" 

"But  it's  against  flaw,  Miss  Flowra." 

Miss  Flora  waved  her  hands.  "The  wire's  to  our  sister, 
Lady  Fabricius,"  she  said,  with  a  most  un-Flora-like 
hauteur,  "and  we  wish  to  alter  it  a  little.  Give  it  me, 
Mary,  unless  you  wish  me  to  catch  my  death  of  cold  stand- 
ing here,"  and  Mrs.  Skelton  obeyed. 

Lady  Fabricius,  65B,  South  Audley  Street,  London,  W. — 
Please  allow  us  to  tell  Cuckoo  immediately  that  she  is  to  come 
to  you  in  the  Spring.  Urgent. 

EUPHEMIA. 

Miss  Flora  read  it  slowly. 

"Won't  it  be  delightful,  Mary,"  she  said,  smiling,  as 
she  took  up  the  pen,  "for  Miss  Cuckoo  to  be  presented  to 
the  dear  Queen?" 

"Oo-aye,  Miss  Flowra!  You  ain't  going  to  alter  it 
much?"  she  asked  anxiously,  her  spare  little  form  leaning 
across  the  counter. 

"Oh,  dear,  no,  Mary,  only  a  few  words."  Miss  Flora 
crossed  out  several  words  and  printed  her  alterations 
neatly  above  them. 

"There,  can  you  read  that,  Mary?  I'm  sure  you  can; 
you're  so  clever " 

Obliged  tell  Cuckoo  your  generous  plans  for  Spring. 
Strongly  advise  your  having  her  immediately  if  possible.  Very 
important. 

EUPHEMIA. 

Mrs.  Skelton  read  this  message  aloud,  dismay  on  her 
face. 

"But  it  isn't  t'same  message  at  all,  Miss  Flowra." 

181 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Miss  Flora  smiled  confidentially. 

"Oh,  the  change  is  very  unimportant,  my  dear  Mary. 
You  see,  between  you  and  me,  Miss  Cuckoo  is  getting 
a  little  tired  of  being  always  alone  with  just  us.  Not 
that  she  doesn't  love  us,  you  know — but — oh,  well, 
she's  eighteen,  and  I,  Miss  Effie  and  I,  decided  that  it 
would  be  well  for  her  not  to  have  to  wait  till  Spring  for 
a  little  change  of  scene." 

To  Miss  Flora's  surprise,  Mary  Skelton  looked  at  her 
for  a  long  moment,  eye  to  eye,  thoughtfully,  as  if  in  her 
mind  some  idea  were  working. 

"Do  you  understand?"  Miss  Flora  asked. 

"Aye,  aye,  Miss  Flora,  I  understand.  I'll  send  t'tele- 
gram,"  the  woman  answered  slowly. 

"Of  course  you  will,  Mary,"  laughed  Miss  Flora,  with 
her  characteristic,  slightly  artificial  brightness,  giving  a 
little  skip. 

But  Mary  Skelton,  who  had  three  daughters  of  her 
own,  didn't  laugh. 

"Girls  get  into  mischief,  Miss  Flowra,"  she  said  gravely, 
"if  they  are  too  much  alone,  even  when  they  are  lady- 
girls » 

Supper  was  kept  waiting  nearly  an  hour  that  night, 
for  a  boy  came  up  with  a  message  that  Miss  Flora  was 
dining  at  the  Vicarage,  and  before  this  Miss  Effie  came  in 
looking  very  tired,  saying  that  she  had  been  at  Barty 
Raw's  up  toward  Flaye. 

"You  know,  Cuckoo? — the  one  whose  wife  died  last 
Easter.  It  was  pouring  when  I  got  there,  and  the  old 
man  made  me  a  cup  of  tea." 

Cuckoo  nodded.  She  was  not  at  all  interested  in  old 
Barty  Raw  or  in  the  singular  fact  that  her  aunts  should 
have  chosen  that  particularly  inclement  afternoon  for 
a  long  walk. 

182 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Miss  Flora  got  home  about  half-past  nine,  the  Vicar 
having  had  her  driven  up  in  his  dog-cart,  but  she  was 
very  wet,  despite  her  umbrella  and  the  rugs,  and  the  sis- 
ters parted  almost  at  the  door  and  went  to  bed. 

Next  afternoon  little  Bobby  Christie  came  up  the  hill 
with  a  telegram.  Aunt  Flora,  Aunt  Effie,  and  Cuckoo 
were  at  tea,  and  when  Nellie  came  in  with  her  little  salver 
neither  aunt  showed  the  slightest  interest  in  it. 

"A  telegram,"  said  Miss  Effie,  pouring  tea  into  her 
cup. 

"Oh,  a  wire,"  said  Miss  Flora,  as  if  wires  were  common 
enough  in  the  house,  but  belonged  to  no  one  in  particular, 
like  flies. 

It  is  odd,  however,  that  when  Nellie,  who  liked  living 
in  a  house  where  telegrams  came  two  days  in  succession, 
held  the  salver  to  Cuckoo  both  old  ladies  should  have 
given  a  start  of  surprise. 

The  wire  said : 

Wish  you  to  come  immediately  for  a  fortnight  to  see  about 
your  presentation  gown  and  prepare  for  the  Season.  Love  to 
your  aunties. 

AUNT  MASCIA. 

It  was  only  on  the  death-bed  of  the  first  of  the  two 
to  go  that  the  aunts  ever  told  each  other  the  story  of 
their  having,  unknown  to  each  other,  listened  to  Cuckoo's 
mad  crying  that  afternoon,  and  their  resulting  pilgrim- 
ages through  the  storm  to  Flaye. 


PART  II 

Two  Years  Pass 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  old  man  leant  on  the  counter,  one  elbow  on  a 
little  square  of  black  velvet,  and  poked  the  string 
of  pearls  about  on  another  square. 

"The  little  ones,"  he  said,  not  more  gutturally  than 
speak  certain  of  the  very  great  ones  of  the  earth,  "are 
better  suited  to  a  pretty  young  throat." 

"Yes,  but  think  of  the  years  when  the  pretty  young 
throat  will  be  old  and  stringy  like  a  drum-stick,  when  the 
only  pretty  thing  about  it  will  be  your  pearls !" 

He  who  passed  his  working  hours  among  just  such 
scenes,  except  that  the  gentleman,  though  not  older  and 
uglier  than  many  of  those  who  buy  pearls  for  youg  ladies, 
was  obviously  only  a  parent  of  some  kind,  did  not  inter- 
rupt the  conversation.  He  was  an  elegant,  princely 
young  man  who  wore  an  immaculate  frock-coat  and  smelt 
of  eau-de-fougere. 

The  young  lady,  he  thought,  needed  no  assistance  in 
what  was  plainly  her  object,  that  of  obtaining  the  best 
possible  pearls. 

"These  are  ducks,"  she  said,  touching  the  string  witn 
a  lingering  hand.  She  had  taken  off  her  gloves,  and  the 
jeweller's  gentleman  noticed  that  the  uncut  emerald  on 
her  fourth  finger  was  a  fine  one,  only  very  slightly  frosted. 

"Shall  I— shall  I  try  them  on?" 

The  old  man  smiled,  his  face,  frog-like  to  a  remarkable 
degree,  softening  charmingly  as  .he  did  so. 

"You  wretch !  That's  why  you  wear  no  collar  this  icy 
day." 

She  slipped  the  long  necklet  over  her  head  without  even 
taking  off  her  tiny  black  velvet  toque. 

187 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Am  I  becoming  to  them?"  she  demanded  gently. 

"You  are,  Cuckoo,  you  are,  but — they  are  yellowish; 
not  such  a  fine  color  as  the  smaller  ones,  are  they?"  he 
returned,  turning  to  the  frock-coated  expert. 

"Not  quite,  sir,  perhaps,  but — on  the  other  hand  they 
are,  if  I  may  say  so,  possibly  more  becoming  to  the  young 
lady  than  the  quite  white  ones.  We  find  as  a  rule,"  he 
went  on,  grandly  proprietary,  poor  gentleman,  on  his 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year,  "that  only  very  pro- 
nounced blondes  really  prefer  quite  white  pearls " 

Sir  Adolph  Fabricius  gave  his  fat  chuckle  and  said 
quietly,  his  little  eyes  resting  with  a  certain  sharpness  for 
a  moment  on  the  speaker,  "The  large  ones  cost  a  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  more.  You  are  an  excellent  salesman, 
and  I  trust  that  you  get  a  good  commission." 

After  a  little  more  talk,  the  string  of  larger  pearls 
was  decided  upon,  and  Sir  Adolph,  producing  a  fat,  gold, 
heavily-chased  fountain-pen  and  a  book  of  dwarf  checks, 
wrote  out  a  check  for  the  amount. 

The  salesman,  who  was  an  observer  by  nature,  was 
surprised  to  see  that  the  young  lady  watched  the  drawing 
of  the  check  as  if  making  a  mental  note  of  its  amount 
rather  than  availing  herself  of  one  of  the  mirrors  to  ad- 
mire herself  in  her  new  adornment.  She  was,  he  thought, 
unlike  a  daughter;  she  was  undoubtedly  behaving  like  a 
recent  footlight  success,  one  of  those  whose  pearls  are 
•worn  with  such  unconsciousness  of  their  being  very  visibly 
and  pitifully  the  exchange  for  the  value  of  rubies. 

As  they  turned  to  go,  the  salesman  stopped  them  by 
leaning  over  the  counter.  "I  have  here,"  he  said,  in  an 
imposing  whisper,  "a  very  curious  and  unusual  jewel 
that  it  may  interest  the  young  lady  to  see." 

"I  am  buying  no  more  today,"  said  Sir  Adolph,  fearful 
,of  an  attempt  on  his  purse  by  the  skillful  one. 

"Oh,  sir,  no  one  could  buy  this  jewel,"  the  man  re- 

188 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

turned,  with  an  odd  look  of  vicarious  pride.  "It  is  an 
heirloom,  in  our  hands  for  a  few  days  for  some  slight  re- 
pairs." 

"Oh,  yes,  Uncle  Adolph,  do  let  us  look  at  it,"  inter- 
jected Cuckoo. 

The  salesman,  with  an  officiating  air,  bade  them  sit 
down  again,  and,  after  a  moment,  produced  a  shabby  old 
leather  case  and  laid  it  on  one  of  his  sacramental  velvet 
squares. 

"H'm,"  said  Sir  Adolph.  Cuckoo  drew  a  long 
breath.  It  was  a  long  chain  of  beautiful  diamonds,  deli- 
cately, almost  invisibly,  set  in  either  platinum  or  silver 
with  marvellous  flexibility.  On  it  hung  an  odd,  appar- 
ently valueless  jewel.  It  was  a  kind  of  pale  gold  bag 
about  six  inches  long,  flexibly  and  beautifully  wrought 
and  closely  studded  with  topazes.  The  string  to  the  bag 
was  a  band  of  diamonds  with  seed-pearl  tassels.  The 
little  jewel  was  delicately  pretty  and  very  old,  but  as  a 
pendant  to  such  a  chain  it  was  strikingly  inadequate. 

"What  a  funny  thing!"  Cuckoo  burst  out.  "What  is 
in  the  bag?" 

The  salesman  smiled  and  held  it  out. 

"Smell  it,"  he  said,  unexpectedly. 

Cuckoo  took  the  chain  and  filtered  it  through  her 
fingers  till  the  bag  lay  in  her  hand. 

"What  is  it?    It's  sage,  or  thyme — I  don't  know " 

Sir  Adolph  took  it. 

"It's — it's — well,  I  don't  know.  It's  used  in  cooking, 
but  I  can't  name  it." 

The  young  man  beamed,  as  if  he  had,  at  one  stroke, 
achieved  great  personal  distinction. 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  he  said,  "it  is  used  in  cooking; 
it's  saffron.  I — of  course,  I  can't  tell  you  to  whom  it 
belongs,  but  it  is  saffron  you  smell.  Odd  thing,  isn't  it?" 

As  they  went  out  of  the  shop,  Cuckoo  was  frowning 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

thoughtfully.  Saffron,  she  thought,  a  bag  of  saffron. 
Now  where  had  she  heard  of  that?  Suddenly  she  remem- 
bered and  told  her  uncle. 

"Oh,  that  fellow's,  is  it?  Janeways?  Yes,  I  have  heard 
of  it.  I  remember  your  aunt  told  me  about  it  one  day. 
It's  famous  in  its  way — a  kind  of  luck,  you  know.  I 
believe  several  women  have  tried  to  make  him  give  it  to 
them — H'm,  h'm,"  he  broke  off  abruptly. 

Cuckoo  nodded. 

"Yes,  Rachel  told  me,  Rachel  Jackson.  What  a 
strange  thing  it  is,  but  very  ugly,  don't  you  think?" 

Cuckoo,  very  slim  and  smart  in  her  blue  coat  and  skirt, 
took  her  uncle's  arm  and  gave  it  a  little  squeeze. 

"It  was  darling  of  you,  Onkelchen,"  she  whispered. 
"You  were  a  dear  to  give  them  to  me." 

The  old  man  beamed,  and  there  was  something  child- 
like and  almost  touching  in  the  quality  of  his  smile. 

"I  am  very  glad  I  am  a  rich  man,"  he  said,  "it's  so 
easy  to  make  nice  people  happy.  Have  you  spent  the 
money  I  gave  you  for  your  pretty  friendt?"  he  added. 

"Yes,  I  went  to  such  a  heavenly  shop  in  South  Moulton 
Street,"  she  returned,  "and  I  got  such  loves  of  things. 
The  bassinette  is  an  absolute  angel,  and  the  little  woollies 
— oh,  Uncle,  such  dears!" 

They  had  got  into  the  gray-lined  limousine,  a  car  as 
big,  it  pleased  Cuckoo  to  think,  as  some  people's  drawing- 
rooms,  and  the  old  man  turned  to  her. 

"Mind,"  he  said,  laughing,  but  with  a  look  in  his  eyes 
that  she  knew,  but  never  spoke  of,  "not  a  word  of  that 
to  your  Auntie." 

"Never,  Uncle  dear.  I  don't  think,"  she  went  on,  "she 
will  mind  about  the  pearls,  do  you?  My  birthday  and 
Christmas  gift" 

He  chuckled.  "She  never  knew  about  the  other  birth- 
day present,  did  she?" 

190 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  frowned.  "No.  There  was,  you  know,  nothing 
to  show  for  it.  It  wasn't  likely  I'd  tell  her  about  that 
beastly  Bridge." 

Sir  Adolph  looked  at  her.  "You  kept  your  promise, 
Cuckoo?" 

She  showed  no  resentment  at  the  question,  but  told  him, 
with  a  lightness  betrayed  by  the  look  in  her  eyes,  that  she 
had  kept  her  promise. 

"Don't  you  trust  me?" 

Old  Adolph  Fabricius,  "Old  Fab,"  as  he  was  called  in 
the  City,  looked  grave. 

"Not  quite,  mein  kukuchen"  She  was  silent,  and  after 
a  moment  he  went  on,  as  if  apologizing  to  her  for  his 
perfectly  just  suspicion.  "You  remember  about  the  young 
man,  my  dear?" 

She  drew  one  of  the  deep,  sobbing  breaths  that  always 
disturbed  her  in  moments  of  emotion. 

"Uncle  Adolph — listen  a  moment;  that  was  nearly  two 
years  ago.  Our  engagement  had  only  been  broken  four 
months,  and,  well,  I  couldn't  help  it;  he  was  ill,  and  I  just 
had  to  go  when  he  sent  for  me.  Are  you  always  going 
to  remember  it  ?" 

"It  was  brecisely  one  year  and  seven  months  ago,  and 
the  fact  that  the  young  man  was  ill  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  case."  He  nodded.  "However,  as  you  say,  it's 
past  and  done.  And  about  de  Britch.  I  do  believe  you, 
but  I  must  just  ask  you,  once  in  a  while." 

She  knew  from  long  experience  that  it  was  utterly  use- 
less to  try  to  make  the  old  man  conform  to  the  usual  rules 
of  politeness.  Most  people,  she  knew,  would  have  gone 
on  disbelieving  her  after  her  deliberate  breaking  of  her 
promise  about  George,  or  have  forgiven  her  and  wiped 
the  memory,  to  all  appearances,  from  their  minds.  But 
the  old  Jewish  banker  did  neither.  He  loved  her  very 
dearly,  and  his  indulgence  was  great,  but  because  she  had 

191 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

failed  him  once,  he  took  his  own  little  measures  from  time 
to  time  of  testing  her,  and  nothing  could  stop  this. 

As  the  car  glided  along  Park  Lane,  he  spoke  again. 

"Cuckoo." 

"Yes,  Uncle  Adolph?" 

"Have  you  seen  that  young  man  again?" 

Between  her  black  hat  and  her  black  furs  her  little 
biscuit-colored  face  looked  very  pale,  but  she  answered 
quietly. 

"Twice." 

"When?" 

"Once  about  a  year  ago,  at  the  play;  he  was  in  the 
stalls;  and  one  day  in  September  when  I  came  up  from 
Planings  to  take  Kitty  to  the  dentist." 

"Did  you  speak  to  him?" 

After  a  pause,  she  answered.  "Yes,  that  time  in  St. 
James's  Street  I  did.  Kitty  was  with  me." 

"What  did  you  say,  Cuckoo?" 

As  if  something  in  his  ugly,  unimposing  little  face  was 
forcing  her,  she  answered : 

"I  said — oh,  I  said,  'Hallo,  George,  what  are  you  doing 
in  town  in  September?' '  She  laughed,  but  Sir  Adolph 
went  on  slowly,  inexorably  in  his  interrogatory. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Uncle  Adolph,"  she  burst  out  angrily,  "it's  too  bad 
of  you.  I  told  you  little  Kitty  Poole  was  with  me.  She's 
nine  and  very  intelligent.  What  could  he  have  said  before 
her?" 

"I  am  not  asking  you,"  pursued  the  old  man,  unmoved, 
his  confusion  between  d's  and  t's  more  marked  as  he  went 
on,  "what  he  could  say,  I  am  asking  you  what  he  did  say. 
Tell  me,  Cuckoo." 

The  car  had  stopped  at  the  old  Georgian  house  that  Sir 
Adolph  had  bought  some  years  before  from  an  impover- 
ished nobleman,  and  the  footman  stood  at  the  door  of  the 

192 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

car,  ready  to  open  it.  The  old  man  held  up  his  left  hand 
— large,  flat,  flabby.  The  man  touched  his  hat,  drew 
back,  and  waited. 

"Tell  me,  Cuckoo." 

"Very  well.  He  asked  me  why  I  wasn't  married  yet, 
if  you  must  know."  Seeing  the  hopelessness  of  resist- 
ance, she  told  him  the  exact  truth,  and  he  was  satis- 
fied. 

"Ach  so,  and  did  you  tell  him  why?" 

"No,  Uncle.  What,"  she  added,  suddenly  smiling,  so 
that  her  one  dimple  played  in  her  cheek,  "what  would  you 
have  told  him  if  he  had  asked  you  ?" 

The  great  banker  looked  at  her  a  little  sadly. 

"I  should  have  told  him,"  he  said,  "that  it  was  because 
no  one  rich  enough  had  asked  me." 

He  then  motioned  to  the  footman  to  open  the  door,  and 
they  went  into  the  house. 

Number  65s  was  one  of  the  old  houses  with  a  TTOW  of 
windows  on  either  side  of  the  door,  that  give  to  South 
Audley  Street  its  ample,  leisured  aspect.  The  staircase,  a 
very  beautiful  one  of  carved  chestnut,  sprang  upward 
from  a  handsome,  black-and-white  marble  floor,  and  sepa- 
rated into  two  branches  half-way  up,  landing  in  opposite 
corners  of  the  first  floor.  The  walls  were  hung  with  the 
portraits  of  the  very  fine  collection  that  was  the  old  bank- 
er's greatest  pride,  and  on  the  second  floor,  stretching 
magnificently  the  full  breadth  of  the  house,  was  the  pic- 
ture-gallery, to  which,  once  a  month,  those  art-loving 
members  of  the  public  who  had  provided  themselves  with 
tickets  from  Sir  Adolph's  private  secretary,  were  allowed 
to  make  their  way  under  that  urbane  young  gentleman's 
very  perfunctory  guidance. 

Cuckoo  went  straight  to  her  room  and  took  off  her  hat 
and  furs.  Then  she  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  her- 
self in  the  pier-glass  that  had  been  her  first  purchase  with 

193 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

her  first  quarter's  allowance,  given  to  her  the  day  of  her 
arrival  in  London  nearly  two  years  before. 

"I  hope,"  her  aunt  had  said,  when  this  acquisition 
arrived,  "that  you  are  not  vain." 

Cuckoo  looked  at  her  with  her  funny,  crooked 
smile. 

"You  mean,  Aunt  Marcia,"  she  answered  pleasantly, 
"that  I  have  no  occasion  to  be.  You  need  not  worry;  I 
know  I  am  not  pretty.  That  glass  simply  means  that  I 
am  going  to  make  the  best  of  myself,"  and  this  she  had 
learned  in  a  really  pre-eminent  way  to  do. 

Lady  Fab,  as  most  of  her  friends  and  acquaintances 
called  her  behind  her  back,  gave  a  fleeting  thought  to  this 
fact  that  November  day  as  her  niece  came  into  the  morn- 
ing-room before  lunch.  Cuckoo  was  still  too  slim,  and 
her  frocks  had  to  be  arranged  with  care  to  conceal  an 
incontrovertible  flatness  where  she  would  fain  have  had 
roundness,  but  her  blouse  and  skirt  were  perfect  and  her 
little  head  brushed  and  cared  for  until,  thick  and  dry  as 
her  hair  was,  it  yet  was  lustrous  and  smooth,  and  as  with- 
out excrescences  as  a  boy's,  so  closely  was  it  packed  away ; 
and  the  odd  little  face,  with  its  long  chin  and  its  scarlet 
mouth  had,  for  those  who  liked  it  at  all,  a  very  strong 
charm. 

"You  look  very  smart,  my  dear,"  the  old  lady  announced 
regally,  looking  her  up  and  down.  "That  skirt's  a  great 
success,  but  you've  got  too  much  black  stuff  on  your 
eyelashes." 

Cuckoo  took  out  her  handkerchief,  and  going  to  the 
looking-glass,  removed  the  offending  surplus  of  grease- 
pencil.  Making  up  her  eyes  was,  however  reprehensible 
the  practice  may  be  considered,  a  great  improvement  to 
her  whole  face,  for  she  did  it  with  care  and  skill,  and  it 
made  her  eyes  look  larger  and  more  lustrous  than  they 
really  were. 

194 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Where  Have  you  been?"  her  aunt  continued,  as  the 
butler  announced  lunch. 

Cuckoo  took  from  its  corner  a  strong,  gold-headed  st'.ck 
that  of  late  years  had  been  necessary  to  the  old  lady,  and 
helping  her  rise,  assisted  her  in  her  slow  and  elephantine 
progress  to  the  dining-room.  Lady  Fabricius,  who  was 
now  nearly  seventy-five,  was  enormously  fat,  and  her  small 
feet,  even  when  enjoying  the  luxury  of  heelless  velvet 
house-shoes,  could,  in  sober  reality,  hardly  .carry  her. 

"Where  have  we  been?"  echoed  Cuckoo.  "That's  just 
it,  Auntie;  you  know  it  isn't  only  my  birthday  present 
we  have  been  buying,  but  my  Christmas  present  as  well." 

"Considering,"  puffed  her  aunt,  swinging  like  a  huge 
chest  in  a  crane,  slowly  into  her  place  at  the  table,  "con- 
sidering that  your  birthday  is  in  September,  and  Christ- 
mas five  weeks  off,  I  don't  altogether  see  why  you  had  any 
present  at  all  today."  She  spoke  with  unusual  geniality, 
but  Cuckoo  received  at  the  same  time  a  signal  of  distress 
from  her  uncle  and  didn't  quite  know  what  to  say. 

"When,  my  angel,"  the  old  gentleman  asked  suddenly 
(he  had,  since  his  wife's  appearance,  undergone  a  curious 
change  of  demeanor),  "when  did  you  say  Bertie  was 
coming?" 

Under  her  complexion  Lady  Fabricius'  skin  took  on  a 
faint  pink  color. 

"Thursday  night,  Adolph ;  only  two  days  more." 

Her  little  eyes,  eyes  ugly  with  the  inevitable  physical 
ugliness  of  old  eyes,  and  which  held  none  of  the  thousand- 
fold compensations  of  expressional  beauty  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  the  old  whose  lives  have  been  good  and  gentle, 
filled  with  tears.  "I  can  hardly  wait,  Adolph,"  she  said 
tremulously. 

The  old  man  beamed.  He  was  afraid  of  his  wife  but 
he  adored  her,  and  to  him  she  was  still  the  imperious 
beauty  who  had,  to  his  never-ending  amazement,  conde- 

195 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

scended  over  forty  years  ago  to  do  him  the  honor  of 
marrying  him  for  his  money. 

"My  poor  Marcia,"  he  returned.  "I  am  even  gladder 
for  you  than  I  am  for  myself.  He  should  not  have  stayed 
away  so  long  from  you.  I  wass  very  angry  when  he 
decided  to  stay  on  in  America." 

The  old  lady  set  down  her  claret-glass  and  threw  up 
her  head,  her  poor  old  head  richly  bedight  with  warm 
auburn  hair  arranged  in  a  bewildering  pattern  of  plaits 
and  rolls  and  little  curls  like  sausages. 

"He  was  right,  Adolph,  quite  right  to  stay  in  America. 
Young  men  ought  to  travel ;  it  broadens  their  minds," 

Cuckoo,  who  was  thinking  of  her  pearls,  caught  the  last 
words. 

"How  old  is  Bertie?"  she  asked  innocently. 

Sir  Adolph  frowned. 

"He  is — dear  me,"  he  answered  hastily,  in  his  most 
broken  English.  "How  dime  does  fly.  It  is  odd  that  you 
should  only  haf  seen  your  cousin  dat  one  dime,  kukuchen. 
He  won't  know  you  now,  will  he,  Mammachen?"  He 
was  allowed  to  call  his  lady  "Mammachen"  only,  so  to 
speak,  on  high  days,  holidays,  and  bonfire-nights,  and 
Cuckoo  realized  that  her  aunt  must,  for  some  reason,  be 
in  a  propitious  mood — a  mood  not  to  be  passed  over 
unimproved. 

"Auntie  dear,"  the  girl  said  hurriedly,  jerking  the 
pearls  out  from  under  her  low  collar,  "look  what  Uncle 
gave  me  to  celebrate  Bertie's  return." 

Sir  Adolph  gasped  in  a  surprised  way,  and  calling 
Almond,  the  butler,  broke  his  usual  midday  rule  by  having 
a  brandy-and-soda,  but  this  precautionary  measure  was 
unnecessary. 

Lady  Fabricius  glared  for  a  moment  and  asked  the 
price  of  the  pearls  in  a  voice  heavy  with  portent;  but  on 
Sir  Adolph's  raising  his  glass  and  drinking  to  the  return 

196 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  her  peloved  poy,  she  held  up  her  claret  glass  and  re- 
turned the  toast  without  any  further  discussion  of  the 
gift. 

Cuckoo  shivered  with  relief  for  the  row  about  her 
emerald  had  been  a  serious  one,  and  the  ermine  collar 
on  her  opera  cloak  had  nearly  resulted  in  her  being  sent 
back  to  Roseroofs.  Not  exactly  ungenerous  herself,  Aunt 
Marcia  had  a  deep-rooted  objection  to  her  husband  spend- 
ing in  useless  gifts  any  of  the  money  he  had  made  with 
his  own  brain,  but  from  the  first  she  had  shown  a  dispo- 
sition to  be  jealous  of  the  old  man's  affection  for  Cuckoo. 

"She's  my  niece,  Adolph,"  she  had  said  a  dishearten- 
ing number  of  times  during  the  first  months  of  Cuckoo's 
stay  with  them,  "no't  yours."  And  the  long-suffering 
Adolph  had  bowed  to  the  storm,  thinking  deep  within  his 
old  breast  that  things  would  indeed  have  been  bad  if 
Linchen  and  Lenchen  and  das  kleine  Olgachen,  his  own 
nieces,  had  by  any  evil  chance  been  transported  from 
Ullheim  to  South  Audley  Street.  Marcia,  his  angel,  would 
not  have  liked  these  solid  young  women,  one  of  whom 
was  happily  married  to  a  rich  miller  and  known  to  her 
friends  as  "die  Miillerin." 

No,  it  was  better,  in  spite  of  everything,  that  it  was 
Marcia's  niece  and  not  his,  who  had  come  to  share  the 
good  things  he  had  achieved. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THURSDAY  came,  and  Bertie  was  to  arrive  in  the 
evening,  having  landed  in  Liverpool  late  in  the 
morning.  His  rooms  had  been  ready  for  some 
days,  and  after  tea  Lady  Fabricius  and  her  niece  went 
up  in  the  lift  to  inspect  them.  Beautiful,  luxurious  rooms 
they  were,  and  by  way  of  a  welcoming  gift  there  was 
spread  about  the  dressing-room  a  toilet  service  of  solid 
gold,  with  "H.  L.  F."  all  over  it  in  block  letters. 

"He  loves  gold,"  Lady  Fabricius  had  said  pensively, 
as  if  she  had  said,  "He  loves  Mozart,"  or  "He  loves 
pansies." 

Cuckoo  laughed.    "So  do  most  people,"  she  said. 

"They  don't.  Your  uncle,  for  instance.  All  his  things 
are  silver,  aren't  they,  Parsons?" 

Mrs.  Parsons,  the  housekeeper,  whose  arrangements  for 
the  coming  of  the  great  Bertie  were,  so  to  say,  being 
reviewed  by  the  Commander-in-Chief,  nodded. 

"Oh,  yes,  my  lady,  everything.  Everything  of  Sir 
Hadolph's  are  silver,  but  Mr.  Ubert,  'e  was  always  for 
gold,  he  was,  cigarette-cases,  and  match-boxes,  and  all 
such  similar  jee-jaws." 

Cuckoo  was  dining  out  that  night,  but  she  meant  to 
have  a  look  at  the  Great  One  before  she  went,  so  she 
dressed  early,  in  black  which  she  very  often  wore,  and 
then,  waiting  till  she  heard  the  car  drive  up  and  dashing 
downstairs  in  an  appearance  of  great  hurry,  she  met  her 
cousin  on  the  stairs,  "according  to  plan."  They  shook 
hands  hastily  after  his  "I  beg  your  pardon — you're 
Cuckoo,  of  course."  And  she  rushed  on,  making,  she  knew, 

198 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

an  interesting  and  arresting  picture  in  her  black  gown  and 
with  her  orange  velvet  cloak,  with  the  famous  ermine  col- 
lar, wrapped  round  her. 

Hubert  Fabricius  was  a  heavily-built,  brick-red  man 
of  about  eight-and-thirty.  He  was  a  little  bald,  and  she 
knew  his  face,  already  blurred  in  outline,  the  edges  less 
keen  than  they  had  been,  would  eventually  be  very  shape- 
less and  heavy.  His  eyes,  however,  were  really  rather 
beautiful ;  dark  violet  eyes  with  long  lashes ;  they  were 
bloodshot  and  the  lids  were  a  little  swollen,  but  the  color 
in  itself  was,  she  noticed,  the  deep,  unusual  violet  of  Aunt 
Flora's. 

These  things-  the  girl  turned  over  in  her  mind  on  the 
way  to  Grosvenor  Place.  She  had  seen  him  only  once 
before,  and  that  was  on  the  evening  of  her  arrival  in 
London  nearly  two  years  ago.  He  had  been  on  the  point 
of  starting  for  the  Riviera,  and  though  he  had  been  in 
London  once  or  twice  since  then,  she  had  on  each  occa- 
sion chanced  to  be  away:  once  at  Roseroofs  and  once  at 
Planings  with  Lady  Pelter,  who  had  taken  a  great  fancy 
to  her.  She  was  not  unaware  of  the  effect  Bertie's  return 
might  not  improbably  have  on  lier  own  position.  It  could 
be  regarded  as  a  kind  of  milestone  on  her  road.  Lady 
Fabricius  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  kind  to  a  degree 
that  had  caused  surprise,  though  no  discussion  at  Rose- 
roofs.  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  had  never  realized  that 
their  elder  sister  had  really  loved  poor  May;  they  had 
known  that  she  would  keep  her  promise  to  Blundell ;  they 
knew  that  the  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  was  Cuckoo's 
for  life,  but  they  had  not  expected  for  Cuckoo,  more 
than  one  or  two  "Seasons" — for  Seasons  were  definite- 
dated  things  in  those  days — and  now  nearly  two  years 
had  passed  since  Cuckoo  had  been,  not  visiting,  but  at 
home  in  South  Audley  Street.  Twice  she  had  been  to 
Rosexoofs  for  a  fortnight  at  a  time,  but  without  a  word 

199 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

on  the  subject  being  said,  it  was  quite  clear  to  everybody 
that  she  regarded  herself  as  a  guest  there.  Her  home 
was  with  Uncle  and  Aunt  Fab,  and  now,  as  she  bowled 
along  in  the  comfortable  car  that  was  as  large  as  some 
people's  drawing-rooms,  her  quick  mind  was  envisaging 
all  the  points  in  her  situation.  She  smelt  danger. 

Lady  Fabricius  adored  Bertie,  and  Sir  Adolph  adored 
Lady  Fabricius.  "Suppose,"  the  girl  thought  with  a 
horrid  pang,  "that  Bertie  doesn't  like  me.  If  he  didn't, 
and  he  wanted  her  to,  she'd  pack  me  off  at  five  minutes' 
notice,  and  then  where  should  I  be?" 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that  she  bore  no  malice 
towards  her  aunt,  as  she  faced  this  probable  eventuality. 
Her  aunt  had  been  remarkably  kind  to  her  and  she  knew 
it,  but  the  nest  in  South  Audley  Street  was  not  her  home, 
and  if  the  returned  wanderer  found  the  stranger  took 
up  too  much  room  in  it,  the  mother-bird  would  not  only 
kick  the  stranger  out,  but  would  have  a  right  to  do  so. 

"I  am  well  named,"  Miss  Blundell  thought,  as  the  car 
stopped.  "I  am  a  Cuckoo." 

She  frowned  impatiently,  for  it  made  her  very  angry 
that  she  was  a  failure ;  and  she  was  a  failure  in  that  she 
had  not  been  adroit  enough  to  secure  a  nest  for  herself — a 
real  nest  of  her  own — and  she  knew  it. 

She  danced  well  and  had  a  thousand  friendly  acquaint- 
ances among  men,  and  one  or  two  of  the  strictly  ineligible 
class  had  invited  her  to  share  their  futures,  but  not  one 
man  who  was,  as  she  put  it,  "worth  marrying,"  wanted 
her.  A  big  Australian  millionaire  whom  she  had  done 
her  best  to  marry,  had  summed  her  up  in  a  home  letter 
in  fairly  just  terms. 

Billy  is  rather  smitten  [he  wrote]  with  a  little  girl  here,  a 
niece  of  an  old  Jew  banker.  I  rather  like  her  myself  and  have 
seen  something  of  her.  She'd  do  splendidly  in  some  ways  for 
Billy,  for  she's  as  strong  as  a  rat  and  has  a  will  of  iron,  could 

200 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

stand  any  kind  of  weather  and  any  amount  of  "roughing"  it  if 
she  wanted  to,  only — she  would  not  want  to!  She  has  been 
having  a  go  at  my  £  s.  d.,  but  I'm  not  taking  any,  thanks;  too 
business-like  to  suit  me,  and  I  should  think  has  got  as  much 
capacity  for  -loving  as  a  steel  poker. 

So  poor  Cuckoo  was  a  failure.  One  fine  thing  about 
her  at  that  period,  was  her  courage  in  boldly  facing  this 
horrid  fact,  and,  after  dinner,  which  from  her  point  of 
view  had  been  very  dull,  she  settled  herself  in  a  lonely 
corner  to  listen  to  Caruso  who,  for  some  little  Balkan 
king's  ransom,  was  to  sing  two  songs,  and  went  on  with 
her  reflections.  Suddenly  illumination  came  to  her.  She 
had  just  reflected  that,  while  Aunt  Marcia  would  be  sure 
to  hurl  her  beloved  boy  at  the  daughters  of  duchesses  and 
countesses  and  so  on,  the  daughters  of  the  duchesses  and 
countesses  are  not  so  keen  on  new  money  as  they  used  to 
be,  and  lots  of  them  really  seem  to  prefer  good  blood. 

Then  the  great  idea  came.  "Sixty  thousand  pounds  a 
year  is  not  so  very  much  nowadays,  and  until  dear  Uncle 
Fab  dies  Master  Bertie  can't  have  more  than  five  thou- 
sand;— not  much  of  a  catch  for  the  big  families,  but  he 
might  be  made  to  do  for  me — if  he  would  have  me !" 

There  was  in  her  thoughts  neither  conceit  nor  humility ; 
she  was  doing  that  thing  so  unusual  in  everybody,  but 
perhaps  most  of  all  in  a  young  girl,  facing  her  situation 
with  absolute  candor  and  laying  her  plans  according  to 
bare  possibilities.  And  as  she  sat  in  deep  distraction  the 
after-dinner  guests  began  to  arrive. 

Signer  Caruso  was  already  there  and  stood  talking  to 
a  very  tall  Beauty.  His  accompanist  was  at  the  piano ; 
there  was  the  usual  confusion  as  people  settled  into  their 
places  and  Cuckoo  was  undisturbed.  She  was  rrot  a  music 
lover,  but  everybody  who  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear 
that  most  marvellous  of  voices,  must  be  enthralled  by  it, 
and  gradually  the  girl's  thoughts  melted  into  a  soft  con- 

201 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

fusion  of  feeling.  The  great  tenor  was  singing  a  simple 
song,  and  the  inexpressible  magic  of  his  voice  laid  the 
room  under  as  strong  a  spell  as  was  even  the  Palace  of 
the  Sleeping  Beauty;  and  suddenly  Cuckoo,  raising  her 
eyes  and  moving  a  little  forward  to  get  a  better  view  of 
the  singer,  caught  sight  of  one  of  the  latest  arrivals  who 
stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  leaning  against  the  door. 
It  was  George.  Her  first  feeling  was  one  of  intense, 
sincere  exasperation  that  he  should  appear  now,  just  when 
she  was  so  busily  arranging  to  marry  Hubert  Fabricius. 
She  would  be  upset  for  days  and  she  knew  it,  and  resented 
it.  George  had  not  yet  seen  her,  and  his  large  eyes  were 
filled  with  the  blindness  of  a  deep  dream.  Cuckoo  per- 
ceived with  approbation  that  his  dress  clothes  were  new, 
but  her  heart  trembled  to  see  how  very  pale  he  was,  and 
that  there  were  triangular  shadows  under  his  cheek-bones. 
How  an  unknown  young  man  from  the  country  had  the 
good  luck  to  be  included  in  the  list  of  the  very  great  lady 
who  was  his  hostess,  Cuckoo  did  not  ask  herself.  If  she 
had  met  George  in  a  thieves'  kitchen,  or  in  the  Pope's 
oratory,  she  would  not  have  been  surprised.  He  was 
George,  therefore  it  was  always  natural  to  her  to  see  him. 
Oh,  how  she  wished  he  hadn't  come ! 

When  the  song  ceased,  of  the  latter  part  of  which  she 
had  not  heard  one  note,  Cuckoo  rose  and  crept  quietly 
across  the  room  to  her  hostess.  She  had  a  headache,  she 
said,  and  feared  she  must  go.  And  there  was  George 
stuck  like  an  owl  on  a  barn-door  in  her  very  path.  She 
waited  a  minute  as  he  slowly  started  towards  two  ladies 
sitting  together  not  far  off. 

"If  he  speaks  to  them  I  can  slip  out,"  the  girl  thought, 
but  just  as  she  neared  the  door,  the  young  man  turned 
and  saw  her. 

"Cuckoo,"  he  cried,  coming  to  her,  "are  you  glad  to 
see  me?" 

202 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

She  laughed.    "You  idiot,  George,  to  ask  me  that!" 

"Yes,  but  are  you  ?"  he  persisted  gently. 

"Delighted,  of  course.    Have  you  been  in  town  long?" 

"I  have  lived  in  London  for  six  months,  Cuckoo,"  he 
answered  quietly.  "I  have  a  studio  in  Chelsea  and  am 
painting." 

If  only  his  eyelashes  didn't  flicker  in  that  distracting 
way,  and  if  only  his  little  white  teeth  were  not  so  beau- 
tiful! 

"Well,  I  must  be  off,"  she  said.  "Glad  to  have  seen 
you,  George.  Give  my  love  to  the  Vicar." 

He  looked  at  her  gravely,  shaking  his  head. 

"You  don't  fool  me  a  bit,  you  know.  You  are  every 
bit  as  glad  to  see  me  as  I  am  to  see  you.  Come  to  the 
Round  Pond  at  eleven  tomorrow." 

"Good  Heavens,  no!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because — oh,  don't  be  silly,  George ;  of  course  I  can't 
come.  Besides,  I  don't  want  to." 

He  shook  his  head  again  and  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
with  gentle  obstinacy,  "you  do  want  to.  And  you  needn't 
be  afraid,"  he  added  seriously.  "I'm  not  going  to  ask 
you  to  marry  me." 

Her  stare  was  almost  ludicrously  surprised. 

"Then  why "  she  began. 

"Dear  old  Cuckoo — I  want  to  talk  to  you;  you  aren't 
happy " 

After  a  pause  during  which  she  seemed  to  hear  a  crash 
of  all  her  defenses  as  they  fell,  she  said  indifferently : 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  aren't  going  to  be  silly  and  try  to 
make  love  to  me,  I'll  come.  All  that  nonsense  was  over 
nearly  two  years  ago,  anyhow,  and  there's  no  real  reason 
why  we  shouldn't  be  friends." 

She  nodded  and  left  him. 

Caruso  was  singing  again  as  she  put  her  cloak  on,  and 

203 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

while  the  car  was  being  called,  she  stole  back  up  the  stairs 
to  listen.  George  had  changed  his  position  and  was  facing 
the  door,  so  that  he  saw  her.  He  didn't  move,  and  yet, 
as  she  stood  there,  he  seemed  to  cross  the  room  towards 
her,  to  come  through  the  door,  to  put  his  arms  round 
her;  and  together,  it  seemed  to  her,  close  together,  they 
were  listening  to  the  divine  voice.  .  .  . 

When  the  song  ceased  George  did  not  join  her.  Their 
eyes  broke  away  from  each  other's,  and  she  went  slowly 
downstairs.  All  the  way  home  she  leant  back  in  the  corner 
with  her  eyes  shut. 


CHAPTER  XVH 

AS  the  car  drew  up  at  65s,  a  taxi  left  the  door,  and 
Cuckoo  saw  a  man  standing  on  the  steps.  It  was 
her  cousin  Hubert. 

"That's  right,"  he  exclaimed  in  an  undertone,  taking 
out  his  latchkey  as  she  joined  him,  "I  thought  it  was 
you." 

He  looked  very  big  and  rather  imposing,  she  thought, 
in  his  fur-collared  coat,  and  as  she  paused  at  the  foot 
of  the  branching  staircase  to  say  good-night,  his  violet 
eyes  held  hers  in  a  way  she  liked. 

"Don't  go  up,"  he  said.  "Come  into  the  library,  and 
we'll  have  something  to  eat  and  you  can  tell  me  about 
—things." 

"What  things?"  she  asked  gravely. 

"Oh — Mother  says  Caruso  was  to  sing;  did  he?  Tell 
me  about  him,  or  about  anything  else,  so  long  as  you 
come." 

He  took  off  her  cloak  and  laid  it  on  a  chest;  then  he 
took  off  his  own  coat,  and  she  saw  that  in  spite  of  his 
bulkiness  he  looked  his  best  in  evening  dress.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  she  thought,  her  plan  might  not  be  so  dreadful 
of  accomplishment.  He  was  physically  a  far  handsomer 
man  than  poor,  thin,  narrow-chested  George.  She  also 
liked  his  adroitness  in  forestalling  any  talk  among  the 
servants  by  immediately  ringing  for  Almond  and  ordering 
a  brandy-and-soda  for  himself,  and  a  bottle  of  stone 
ginger  with  lemon  for  her.  Moreover,  he  did  not  make 
the  blunder  of  explaining  to  her  that  he  thought  it  best 
that,  having  opened  the  door  with  his  latchkey,  and  the 

205 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

servants  being  up,  to  have  the  man  in,  but  she  knew  and 
appreciated  his  carefulness. 

"Is  her  ladyship  in  bed,  Almond?"  he  asked,  lighting  a 
cigarette. 

"Yes,  sir,  her  ladyship  had  a  headache,  I  believe,  and 
went  to  bed  very  early,  sir." 

"Then  we  won't  disturb  her  to-night,  Cuckoo." 

Cuckoo  nodded.  "Oh,  dear,  no."  Then,  with  a  sharp 
glance  at  Almond's  expressionless  face,  she  added,  "I  never 
go  up  to  her  in  her  room  unless  she  sends  for  me." 

The  library,  a  large,  square  room  lined  with  fine  books, 
was  a  satisfactory  stage  for  an  important  interview. 
Cuckoo  liked  it.  Her  little  black-clad  figure  looked  its 
best  against  the  browns  and  golds  of  the  books  and  the 
moss-green  velvet  hangings,  and  she  knew  it.  She  stood 
in  the  big  chimney-place,  one  hand  on  the  mantelpiece, 
looking  into  the  fire.  Fabricius  watched  her  keenly ;  she 
felt  the  keenness  and  knew,  without  seeing,  just  when  it 
kindled  to  something  more.  Among  the  logs  on  the  hearth 
glowed  big  blocks  of  peat — squares  of  liquid  fire  they 
looked — and  their  scent  mingled  with  that  of  the  hundreds 
of  old  calf-bound  books;  the  leisured  sound  of  the  big 
clock — ticking  is  too  slight  a  word  for  its  deep  and 
sonorous  note — gave  the  girl  a  strong  feeling  of  being 
encouraged  and  backed  in  her  enterprise.  She  felt  that 
she  had  the  right  to  live  in  such  a  room,  amid  such  scents, 
and  sights,  and  sounds.  She  put  the  thought  of  George 
resolutely  from  her  mind.  She  would  marry  Fabricius  and 
"have  things,"  but  she  would  make  him  happy  as  well. 

"Cuckoo,"  he  said  suddenly,  "what  are  you  thinking 
of?" 

She  started.  "Oh,  nothing.  I  was  looking  at  the  fire; 
you  know  how  one  does — not  thinking  of  anything — but 
I  think  the  smell  of  the  peat  gets  into  one's  head." 

"Well,  put  it  out  of  your  head,"  he  said  nervously, 

206 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

with  a  bantering  note  in  his  voice.     "You  have  changed 
since  I  last  saw  you." 

In  his  study  at  the  back  of  the  house,  old  Sir  Adolph 
sat  thinking.  The  room  was  small  and  had  only  one 
window.  He  had  chosen  it  because  it  was  very  quiet  and 
it  was  comfortable.  He  sat  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire; 
he  wore  a  quilted  smoking- jacket  of  plum-colored  silk, 
and  on  his  large,  flat  feet  was  a  pair  of  slippers  embroid- 
ered in  bullion.  Those  slippers  were  blatantly  of  German 
origin  and  had  been  worked  for  him  on  the  far-off  banks 
of  the  Main  by  Linchen  and  Lenchen  as  a  Christmas  gift. 
Lady  Fabricius  could  not  endure  them,  so  he  wore  them 
only  when  he  was  sure  that  they  would  not  wound  her 
eyes.  But  he  liked  them,  for  they  were  roomy  and  warm, 
and  besides,  Linchen  and  Lenchen  had  made  them ;  Linchen 
and  Lenchen,  his  only  sister's  daughters,  whom  he  had 
not  seen  since  they  were  little  children.  His  smoking- 
cap,  which  was  very  ornate  and  grand  and  had  a  gold 
tassel  that  bobbed  about  his  face  when  he  moved  sud- 
denly, was  an  offering  from  an  unknown  niece-in-law,  Frau 
Chimney-Inspector  Schlott,  in  Dresden.  Sir  Adolph  had 
lived  many  years  in  England,  but  his  old  blood  was  still 
true  to  his  kind. 

There  was  only  one  electric  light  on,  for  the  old  man 
liked  the  firelight,  and  as  he  sat  there  in  the  midnight 
quiet  he  was  lapped  in  old  memories. 

Over  the  mantelpiece  hung  a  very  badly  painted  por- 
trait of  a  man  in  the  high  stock  of  Napoleon's  day,  and 
Sir  Adolph  had  begun  to  think  of  his  early  life,  for  the 
old  Jew  with  the  subtle,  clever  face  was  his  grandfather, 
whom  he  could  best  remember  as  a  very  ancient  man  with 
no  teeth  and  eyes  that  still  blazed  like  fire  somewhere  far 
back  in  his  head.  This  old  man,  Isaac  Fabricius,  had 
been  a  horse-dealer  and  money-lender  in  one  of  a  string 

207 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  long,  dirty,  ugly  villages  on  the  Main,  near  Frankfort. 
Where  he  had  originally  come  from  nobody,  not  even 
himself,  knew,  but  he  had  not  been  of  the  solid,  agricul- 
tural type.  He  was  a  clever,  shrewd  man,  possessed  of 
various  little  lodes  of  knowledge  from  which  he  drew 
unexpected  treasures  when  occasion  arose.  The  Napo- 
leonic wars  were,  for  example,  an  occasion  for  him,  and 
his  knowledge  of  French  .had  been  said,  his  grandson  re- 
membered, to  have  enabled  him  to  do  much  profitable  work 
as  a  spy.  At  all  events,  when,  early  in  the  twenties,  he 
again  settled,  as  far  as  such  spirits  ever  settle,  at  Over- 
heim-am-Main,  it  was  plain  that  he  was  not  a  poor  man. 
Until  he  was  very  old  he  had,  assisted  by  his  son,  gone 
on  plying  his  double  trade,  and  when  he  died,  in  his  grand- 
son's childhood,  he  was  a  rich  man  for  his  class. 

And  now  old  Sir  Adolph,  sitting  in  his  splendid  London 
house,  passed  mentally  from  his  grandfather  to  contem- 
plation of  his  own  childhood.  How  well  he  remembered 
the  village,  the  long,  cobbled  street,  the  sordid,  dirty, 
etone  house,  possessing  for  a  garden  a  kind  of  pit  outside 
the  front  door,  where  a  manure  heap  lay  and  accumulated 
and  rotted.  An  occasional  geranium  in  a  window  was 
the  only  flower  the  boy  and  his  sister  ever  saw  in  their 
childhood.  In  the  ill-defined  little  square — more  a  widen- 
ing of  the  street  than  a  real  square — stood  the  village 
pump,  and  here  it  was  the  women  came  to  fill  the  great, 
flattened  casks  they  carried  strapped  to  their  backs.  The 
church  was  beautiful  in  the  florid  way  of  the  Rococo 
Period ;  fat-bellied  angels  clustered  on  the  facade ;  the 
windows  were  overhung  by  heavily-carved  frills  of  stone, 
and  above  the  strong  door  stood  a  clumsy  St.  Christopher 
carrying  the  Christ.  The  small  Adolph  and  the  small 
Gretchen  admired  the  church,  but  were  not  allowed  to  go 
into  it  because  they  were  Jews. 

Their  father's  house,  by  far  the  most  comfortable  in 

208 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

the  village,  stood,  not  in  the  main  street,  but  in  what  was 
called  "the  Judenhof" — the  Jews'  quarter,  a  cluster  of 
houses  isolated  from  the  village,  at  the  end  of  a  very 
muddy  lane.  To  the  end  of  his  life  Adolph  Fabricius 
associated  great  muddiness  with  the  lane  to  the  Judenhof. 
His  father,  Valtele  (pronounced  Feltyleh)  was  not  a  good 
Jew,  and  he  was  disliked  by  all  the  orthodox  Jews,  but 
as  he  was  rich  he  was  tolerated,  tolerated  by  the  ugly 
women  with  the  black  jute  wigs,  by  the  serious,  bearded 
men  who  were  then  truer  to  the  Old  Testament  type  than 
they  are  now,  possessing  the  silent,  abstemious  unmirthful- 
ness  that  must  have  been  possessed  by  those  who,  in  the 
Wilderness,  so  eternally  murmured  against  poor  Moses. 
Valtele  Fabricius  was  a  rich  man,  so  he  was  forgiven  much. 
They  had,  the  child  knew,  even  forgiven  him  his  un-Jewish 
wife  in  time. 

"Was  my  mother  a  Christian?"  he  had  once  asked  his 
father,  as  they  sat  at  their  supper  a  bitter  cold  night,  in 
the  over-heated,  airless  living-room.  His  father,  already 
an  old  man,  although  the  boy  was  but  ten,  turned  his 
queer,  hooded  eyes  on  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Your  mother  was  a  Christian;  she 
was  a  good  and  brave  woman." 

His  mother  had  been  good  and  brave,  the  old  man  re« 
fleeted,  and  he  too  had  been  good.  He  laughed  softly  as 
he  thought  how  little  people  knew  how  he  had  made  his 
money.  But  he  knew,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  been 
honest  and  fair.  He  had  also  fulfilled  the  practice  of  that 
greatest  of  Jewish  virtues — charity.  His  mother  would 
not  have  been  ashamed  of  him  if  she  had  lived. 

When  he  was  fourteen  his  father  had  died,  and  he  and 
his  sister  had  gone  to  live  in  Frankfort.  After  that  he 
had  had  no  youth.  He  did  not  dwell  long  on  the  thought 
of  his  dull,  monotonous  work  in  a  pawnbroker's  shop  that 
had  started  him  in  his  career.  The  Franco-Prussian  war 

209 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

had  made  his  fortune  in  the  end,  and  the  next  event  in  his 
life  was  his  meeting  his  beautiful  and  wonderful  Marcia, 
and  the  miracle  of  her  becoming  his  wife.  How  beautiful 
she  had  been!  His  dreams  were  very  romantic,  but  he 
sighed  as  he  came  to  his  son.  They  had  been  married 
some  years  when  the  boy  was  born,  and  Lady  Fabricius, 
like  all  selfish,  spoiled  women,  had  treated  her  child  as  if 
he  were  indeed  herself — her  very  flesh.  She  had  accorded 
to  him  the  senseless  indulgence  and  favor  she  had  always 
given  herself,  and  as  a  natural  result  the  boy  had  grown 
up  badly.  He  had  grown  up  as  no  man,  whether  he  be 
German  Jew  or  English  gentleman,  likes  his  son  to  grow 
up.  He  was  selfish,  self-indulgent,  and  profligate;  his 
strength  of  will  was  tremendous  in  so  far  as  it  was  devoted 
to  the  getting  of  his  own  way,  but  he  was  weak  to  an 
equal  degree  in  any  matter  where  his  own  comfort  was 
involved.  He  had  been  expelled  from  Eton,  and  his  Oxford 
career  had  been  a  series  of  blows  to  his  father.  "Bertie 
Fab,"  as  he  was  called,  had  been  asked  to  take  his  name  off 
the  books  of  his  College,  and  later  he  had  been  obliged  to 
withdraw  from  a  very  famous  club;  he  drank,  and  for 
some  years  his  tastes  were  unusually  low.  But  of  these 
things  his  mother  either  knew  or  cared  nothing.  To  her 
he  was  what  she  indiscreetly  called  "her  beautiful  boy," 
and,  to  do  him  justice,  his  good  side,  such  as  it  was,  was 
always  turned  to  her,  and  poor  old  Sir  Adolph  did  his 
best  to  bear  his  shame  and  disgrace  without  letting  his 
wife  see  that  he  was  unhappy. 

It  was  at  this  time,  just  after  the  episode  of  the  Club, 
that  she  had  invented  the  theory,  in  which  she  came  to 
believe,  that  her  husband  had  liver  trouble.  The  old  man 
smiled  as  he  remembered  his  amazement  on  the  first  occa- 
sion when  this  entirely  imaginary  malady  of  his  was  used 
to  cover  his  uncontrollable  depression.  He  had  been  so 
surprised,  and  Marcia  had  been  so  glib ! 

210 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"I  must  take  him,"  Lady  Fab  had  said,  "to  Karlsbad. 
It  is  the  only  place,  so  we  must  go  there,  though  I  loathe 
it." 

Sir  Adolph  loathed  Karlsbad  too,  but  patiently  he 
underwent  the  cure  there  year  after  year,  saying  little, 
trotting  about  by  himself,  a  small,  lonely,  unshapely  old 
man,  not  unthankful  for  the  excuse  that  the  liver-com- 
plaint gave  him  for  solitary  walks  and  the  silence  and 
moodiness  that  he  could  not  always,  even  for  his  wife's 
sake,  dominate. 

"After  all,"  he  wondered,  as  he  sat  that  night  over  the 
fire,  "perhaps  it  wass  my  liver.  Some  old  philosopher  has 
said  that  the  liver  is  the  seat  of  the  affections," 

It  is  a  question  whether  Lady  Fabricius  loved  her  son 
more  deeply  than  did  her  husband,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  old  man  himself  had  always  treated  her  love  for 
the  boy  as  something  beyond  his  own  powers  of  achieve- 
ment. For  years  he  had  been  torn  between  his  duty  as  a 
father,  knowing  that  he  ought  to  correct  his  son  and 
enforce  his  authority  over  him,  and  his  pitying,  tender 
longing  to  protect  his  wife  from  the  very  shadow  of  pain. 
When  things  had  got  to  their  worst  point,  Bertie  had  had 
the  wisdom  to  be  persuaded  to  go  round  the  world,  and 
since  then  he  had,  off  and  on,  traveled  a  good  deal.  "I 
suppose,"  Sir  Adolph  mused,  "that  it  has  been  a  relief  to 
me  to  have  the  poor  boy  away,  but  it  has  nearly  brolcen 
his  mother's  heart" — which  was  an  entire  mistake;  for 
Lady  Fabricius'  heart,  though  doubtless  full  of  love  for 
her  son,  was  sentimentally  in  the  status  lymphaticus,  there 
was  too  much  of  herself  there  to  allow  of  anyone,  even 
Bertie,  permanently  disturbing  its  indolent  well-being. 

During  his  son's  travels,  Sir  Adolph  had  had  only  two 
serious  liver  attacks ;  one  supervening  on  a  letter  from 
the  British  Ambassador  at  St.  Petersburg,  as  it  was  then 
called,  and  one  after  the  visit  of  an  old  Spanish  friend  of 

211 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

his  from  Valparaiso.  Lady  Fabricius  had  had  no  know- 
ledge of  the  occasion  of  these  sharp  bouts  of  her  hus- 
band's, but  Cuckoo  had  been  a  great  help  to  the  lonely  old 
man  during  their  duration.  For  she  had  at  once  seen 
that  his  illness  was  mental,  not  physical,  and  her  tact  and 
powers  of  distraction  inherited  from  her  father,  had  helped 
him  more  even  than  she  had  really  known.  For  Cuckoo, 
like  her  father,  had  a  cage  with  a  bird  in  it;  in  fact,  her 
cage  had  two  birds  in  it,  of  the  existence  of  the  second  of 
which  she  was  only  just  beginning  to  be  aware ;  its  uses, 
even  yet,  were  a  puzzle  to  her,  but  she  was  beginning  to 
learn  them,  and  Bertie  Fab  was  destined  to  help  her. 
This  charm,  independent  of  beauty,  for  of  beauty  she  had 
little  or  none,  or  of  intellect,  for  her  double-barrelled  edu- 
cation had  turned  out  rather  a  muddled  affair  and  she 
had  no  compensating  love  of  books ;  or  of  sweetness,  for 
Cuckoo  was  not  sweet ;  the  charm,  the  one  she  had  always 
recognized  and  used,  not  the  new  one,  greatly  endeared  her 
to  her  old  uncle.  Under  its  influence  he  even  went  so  far 
as  to  let  her  see  that  his  trouble  was  not  unconnected 
with  his  absent  son.  His  mind  turned  to  Cuckoo  now 
as  she  sat  only  a  hundred  yards  from  him,  liming  her  little 
twigs,  weaving  her  little  traps,  digging  her  little  pits. 
Although  he  loved  her  as  a  niece,  she  puzzled  him  and 
sometimes  hurt  him  as  a  girl. 

"I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "what  will  become  of  her? 
Perhaps,  after  all,  we  were  unwise  not  to  let  her  see  the 
Loxley  boy.  He  is  a  good  kerl,  and  might  have  brought 
out  the  best  in  her" 

Bertie  Fab  was  an  old  bird  and  wily,  but  he  had  fallen 
under  Cuckoo's  spell  and  saw  not  the  lime  on  her  twigs. 
He  was  unlike  George  in  that  her  attraction  for  him 
blinded  him  to  her  lack  of  beauty.  He  thought  her  ex- 
tremely pretty,  as  well  as  dangerously  desirable,  and  he 

212 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

was  completely  fooled  by  her  attitude  of  detachment.  He 
had  always  believed  himself,  and  with  reason,  a  lady-killer, 
and  his  love-affairs  had  never  been  distinguished  by  any 
very  white  sense  of  honor ;  but  Cuckoo  was  his  own  cousin 
and  in  his  mother's  house,  so  even  that  evening  the  idea  of 
marrying  passed  through  his  brain.  He  was  falling  in 
love  with  her  and  knew  it  and  welcomed  the  fact,  for  it  was 
some  months  since  he  had  been  in  that,  to  him,  habitual 
and  pleasant  condition.  He  was  a  lonely  man  when  not 
in  love.  He  had  found  recently  somewhere  the  tag-end  of 
a  French  quotation,  and  with  the  suppleness  of  mind  that 
he  had  inherited  with  his  Jewish  blood  and  that  so  sharply 
contrasted  with  his  unwieldiness  of  build,  he  brought  the 
lines  into  the  conversation : 

"Et  partout  le  spectre  1'amour 
Et  nulle  part  de  1'amour 

"I  suppose  that  is  true,"  he  said,  as  he  finished  his 
brandy-and-soda,  his  face  a  little  redder  and  a  little  more 
blurred  at  the  edges  than  it  had  been.  "Ghosts  of  love 
and  no  real  love."  Cuckoo  looked  at  him  with  grave  eyes. 

"I  hope  that's  not  true,"  she  said.  "It  would  make  life 
very  desolate." 

"Spectres  are  all  very  well,"  he  returned,  "to  pass  the 
time  until  the  real  thing  comes  along." 

She  nodded,  playing  her  dimple  slyly. 

"How  do  you  know  the  real  thing,  when  it  does  come," 
she  said,  "if  you  have  tieen  playing  about  with  spectres  ?" 

"How  do  you  know  when  a  real  person  comes  into  the 
room,  after  you  have  thought  you  heard  people  coming 
when  no  one  was  there?"  He  poured  out  some  more 
brandy,  and  she  rose. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I've  never  been 
in  love  myself,  except  in  a  childish  way."  This  was  wis- 

213 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

dom,  for  she  knew  quite  well  that  his  father  or  mother 
might  one  day  happen  to  reveal  to  him  the  story  of 
George.  "Well,  I  think  I'll  go  now.  Good-night." 

They  went  upstairs  together  in  silence,  and  half-way  up 
Cuckoo's  heel  caught  in  the  carpet  and  she  would  have 
fallen  in  all  good  faith  but  for  his  catching  her.  Having 
caught  her  in  his  arms  he  held  her  for  a  moment,  his  heart 
giving  a  bound  which  she  distinctly  felt  against  her  bare 
shoulder,  and  he  kissed  her  roughly.  She  pushed  him  away 
and  fled  upstairs  without  a  word. 

"I  say,  Cuckoo,"  he  called  softly,  his  voice  thick,  "don't 
be  angry.  I'm  sorry — I — a  fellow  loses  his  head.  I  beg 
your  pardon" but  she  was  gone. 

She  closed  her  door,  and  walking  soberly  to  her  bed, 
sat  down  and  reviewed  the  situation. 

"That  was  true,"  she  said.  "He  couldn't  help  it,  and 
his  heart  was  going  like  a  donkey-engine,  I  felt  it;  two 
points;  and  his  voice  was  like  poor  Captain  Browne's — 
hoarse  and  jerky;  three  points.  So  far,  so  good."  She 
rose,  and  switching  on  all  the  lights  in  the  room,  stood 
in  front  of  her  pier-glass  and  looked  at  herself.  "You 
have  been  a  horrid  failure  up  to  this,"  she  thought,  as 
deliberately  as  if  she  were  speaking  aloud.  "The  right 
men  don't  want  to  marry  you ;  you  haven't  any  real 
friends,  as  other  girls  have,  and  you've  got  one  more 
chance,  and  that's  Bertie.  Bertie  is  attracted.  He  is 
going  to  lose  his  head  and  you  can  marry  him,  if  you  are 
very  careful."  Then  she  began  slowly  to  undress,  her 
face  suddenly  drawn  and  dusky.  "Aunt  Marcia  will 
rage,"  her  thoughts  went  on,  "but  that  won't  matter.  I 
can  marry  him,  and  I  will  marry  him,  and  there  will  be 
no  more  nonsense  about  George." 

There  was  no  vacillation  in  her  mind.  Her  chance  had 
come  and  she  would  take  it,  and  George  would  wait  in 
vain  at  the  Round  Pond.  She  didn't  know  where  he  lived, 

214. 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

so  she  couldn't  let  him  know  she  wa§  not  coming,  and  she 
dared  not  go,  for  she  dared  not  see  him  again.  "He'll  have 
a  silk  handkerchief  round  his  poor,  delicate  throat,"  she 
moaned,  rolled  up,  a  ball  of  misery,  in  her  soft  bed.  "His 
dear  nose  will  be  rabbitier  than  ever  if  it's  cold  and — he'll 
wait,  and  wait,  and  wait;  his  darling  old  blind  eyes  pop- 
ping out  of  his  head  as  every  new  girl  comes  into  view, 
and  then — and  then  he'll  go  back  to  his  poor  studio  and 

lock  the  door," 

She  cried  herself  to  sleep— but  she  didn't  go  to  the 
Round  Pond. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

CUCKOO  BLUNDELL'S  chase  of  the  Fabricius 
millions  proceeded  very  satisfactorily  for  a  few 
days.  Bertie  was,  in  a  secret,  cautious  way,  very 
devoted  to  her,  and  her  influence  grew  every  time  they 
met.  However,  it  would  behoove  her  to  advance  very 
warily  in  this  particular  jungle,  and  she  knew  it,  for  not 
only  was  the  quarry  a  scarred  and  experienced  brute,  but 
he  was  not  alone;  wary  eyes  watched  out  for  him,  and 
powerful  paws  and  jaws,  she  knew,  were  ready  to  destroy 
her  if  her  tracking  of  him  were  perceived.  However,  two 
things  were  in  her  favor ;  Sir  Adolph  and  Lady  Fab  both 
went  early  to  bed  and  neither  of  them  breakfasted  in  the 
dining-room,  Sir  Adolph,  because  his  breakfast  consisted 
of  a  cup  of  coffee  and  two  pieces  of  Zwieback  at  six 
o'clock,  after  which  he  worked  in  his  study  until  nine  and 
then  went  to  the  City;  and  Lady  Fab  breakfasted  sump- 
tuously in  bed  and  never  came  downstairs  until  after 
eleven.  On  the  third  day  after  their  first  interview,  Bertie 
and  Cuckoo  had  eaten  their  eggs  and  soles  in  the  stimu- 
lating atmosphere  of  that  rarest  of  meals  between  an 
unmarried  man  and  a  girl — a  tete-a-tete  breakfast. 

Bertie  didn't  look  his  best  at  9.30  a.m.  His  red  face, 
which  held,  in  spite  of  its  redness,  something  of  the  cloudy 
darkness  of  the  Oriental's,  looked  less  white  than  ever, 
and  his  eyes  were  at  that  hour  always  unusually  swollen 
and  bloodshot.  Cuckoo  looked  at  him  in  an  unemotional 
and  stock-taking  way  during  the  silence  that  they  broke 
only  by  an  occasional  remark  for  the  servants'  benefit. 
She  was  trying  her  best  to  like  him,  and  the  thickness 

216 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  his  neck  and  the  powerful  muscles  of  his  shoulders 
really  attracted  her,  but  she  hated  the  redness  of  his 
eyelids  and  she  wished  his  mouth  were  not  so  moist  looking. 

She  herself  always  dressed  with  unusual  care  for  break- 
fast, and  her  ecru  crepe-de-Chine  blouse,  just  showing  the 
pearls  tucked  away  against  her  skin,  threw  into  fine  relief 
the  darkness  of  her  hair  and  eyebrows  and  the  vivid  red 
of  her  lips.  The  dining-room,  a  huge  place  with  a  mag- 
nificent Adam  ceiling  and  a  few  fine  black-framed  por- 
traits, gave  them,  at  their  small  table  in  the  window,  a 
pleasant  babes-in-the-wood  feeling — a  feeling  of  two  peo- 
ple on  a  very  little  island  in  a  big  sea.  It  was  sometimes 
said  of  the  Fab  House  that  Lady  Fab  must  have  won- 
derful taste ;  but  this  was — though,  considering  Adolph's 
common  and  insignificant  looks,  a  natural  one — a  mistake. 
It  was  old  Fab,  he  who  had  lived  in  the  Judenhof  in  the 
German  village,  who  made  the  house  what  it  was.  Whence 
he  drew  it  he  knew  no  better  than  the  people  who  ate 
his  food  and  laughed  at  his  accent,  but  there  it  was,  an 
impregnable,  delicate  taste  that,  rooted  in  a  really  mar- 
velous sense  of  period,  flowered  in  an  instinct  which  never 
erred  and,  what  is  more  unusual,  a  perfect  sense  of  the 
beauty  of  space.  Hence  his  house  was  a  place  of  ample 
emptiness,  of  justice-giving  lack  of  crowding,  of  respect- 
ful placing  of  the  treasures  so  many  people  would  have 
ruined  by  setting  too  close  together.  Even  the  shadows 
of  his  splendid  pieces  of  furniture  thus  had  a  chance  of 
being  beautiful  and  unconfused. 

Cuckoo  loved  the  whole  house,  for  to  her,  too,  appre- 
ciation if  not  active  taste  had  been  given.  But  for  some 
reason  she  liked  the  dining-room  best  of  all,  and  she  de- 
cided, as  she  ate  her  breakfast  under  the  benevolent  eye 
of  Almond,  that  considering  the  beauty  of  the  house  and 
of  this  particular  room,  Bertie  would  not  do  at  all  badly 
at  the  head  of  her  table  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  He 

217 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

certainly  looked  as  if  he  had  drunk  more  than  was  good 
for  him,  and  indeed  she  knew  that  there  were  times  when 
he  drank  more  than  would  have  benefited  any  five  men. 
But,  after  all,  it  had  as  yet  not  made  much  mark  on  him. 
She  would  not  let  him  drink  too  much,  and  then  his  really 
beautiful  violet  eyes — it  was  odd  that  they  should  be  like 
Aunt  Flora's — would  lose  their  ugly  redness  and  the  loose 
fat  into  which  the  points  of  his  collar  cut  so  deep,  would 
vanish. 

Every  now  and  then  she  met  his  eyes.  He  had  a  peculiar 
hard  stare  that,  in  its  fixity,  was  almost  insolent.  She 
returned  these  gazes  coolly,  looking  away  after  a  moment 
as  if  she  instinctively  felt  it  was  not  quite  what  he  had 
expected  or  wished.  When  she  rose  he  politely  opened  the 
door  for  her. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  carelessly. 

"What  are  you  doing  this  afternoon?" 

She  looked  at  him  vaguely  as  if  trying  to  remember. 

"I  don't  know ;  nothing  particular." 

"Come  up  to  Hampstead  Heath  with  me.  I'll  get  a 
car.  We  might  have  tea  at  the  'Spaniard's.' ' 

She  laughed.  "I  should  be  delighted,"  she  said  with 
a  little  curtsey,  "if  Aunt  Marcia  says  I  may,"  and  she 
ran  upstairs  without  waiting  for  his  reply. 

Fabricius  stared  after  her  for  a  moment,  after  he  had 
audibly  damned  her  Ladyship,  realizing  the  fact  that  her 
dark  little  face,  with  its  jutting  jaw  and  its  misty  black 
eyes,  was  stirring  him  and  thrilling  him  as  he  had  never 
been  stirred  and  thrilled  before.  He  was  a  man  used  to 
making  a  vivid  impression  on  women,  for  he  had  very 
strong  animal  magnetism  and  the  curious  brainlessness 
that  is  so  often  found  in  the  successful  heart-eater — men 
of  highly  cultivated  minds  are  rarely  successful  libertines, 
not  only  because  they  don't  care  to  be,  but  because  there 
is  in  them  either  a  certain  lack,  or  a  certain  surplus,  that 

218 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

is  fatal  to  this  particular  form  of  sport.  Fabricius  had 
no  brain  and  he  was  a  particularly  perfect  specimen  of 
his  kind.  He  was  a  passionate  man,  but  he  also  adored' 
the  menus  plaisirs  of  love;  he  loved  flattery,  petting  and 
cajolery;  he  loved  to  be  dressed  for  and  made  much  of; 
he  liked  dramatic  scenes,  he  liked  to  be  watched  for,  and 
wept  for,  and  in  this  last  point  he  was  a  very  rare  male, 
for  he  actually  enjoyed  tears  up  to  a  certain  point. 

As  he  smoked  his  after-breakfast  cigarette,  he  wondered 
how  long  it  would  take  Cuckoo  to  be  in  love  with  him 
as  he  meant  her  to  be.  Probably  not  long,  he  decided. 
It  was  a  great  thing  her  being  in  the  house  with  him, 
and  although,  in  spite  of  that  first  flashing  idea  of  mar- 
riage across  his  mind,  he  was  now  giving  no  thought  at 
all  to  the  future,  yet  there  was  a  strong,  perverse  charm 
to  him  in  the  fact  that  his  love-making  was  to  take  place, 
so  to  speak,  under  the  very  nose  of  his  mother.  It  was 
very  simplifying  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  the 
object  of  one's  passion;  it  dispensed  with  the  minor  diffi- 
culties, such  as  calling  and  finding  the  object  surrounded 
by  mothers  and  fathers,  or  brothers  and  sisters,  or  friends. 
Bertie  Fab  hated  rain  and  wind;  he  objected  to  anything 
but  the  most  luxurious  ways  of  getting  about  the  wet, 
winter  streets  of  London.  He  liked  comfortable  chairs, 
bright  fires,  and  he  loathed  wet  feet  as  a  cat  loathes  a 
bath.  He  need  never  go  out  to  see  Cuckoo  and  he  could 
see  her  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  All  these  things  were  very 
pleasing. 

Meantime,  Cuckoo  regarded  him  and  the  situation  in 
almost  exactly  the  same  way,  except  that  her  object  was 
unswervingly  and  unchangeably  matrimonial.  She  knew 
that  he  was  violently  in  love  with  her  and  this  amused  her 
.as  well  as  encouraged  her  efforts.  Passion  left  her  as 
untouched  as  if  she  had  been  Una  instead  of  a  mercenary 
modern  girl  running  down  a  husband;  she  would  marry 

219 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

him  and  then  she  would  "have  things."    She  reflected  com- 
fortably about  the  things  she  would  have. 

She  lunched  out  that  day,  and  when  she  got  home  at 
about  three,  found  her  cousin  waiting  for  her. 

"Mother  and  father  are  out,"  he  said.  "She's  playing 
Bridge  at  her  Club,  and  you  and  I  are  going  to  Hampstead 
Heath.  Have  you  got  on  proper  shoes?" 

"I  have,"  she  said,  "but  you  haven't." 

"I  never  wear  thick  boots,"  he  said;  "they  hurt  my 
feet.  We  sha'n't  walk,  anyhow ;  I've  telephoned  for  a  car 
to  meet  us  at  Charbonnel's." 

They  walked  briskly  to  Bond  Street,  and  after  buying  a 
box  of  chocolates  got  into  the  car  and  flew  up  to  the 
Highlands  of  London.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  sunny  and 
blue-topped,  and  Cuckoo  was  very  happy.  The  girl  she 
had  lunched  with,  a  bride  of  some  three  months'  standing, 
had  been  formerly  as  poor  as  she  herself  was  and  by  her 
marriage  had  achieved  wealth  and  a  title  in  one  stroke. 
She  was  very  happy  with  her  enormous  pearls,  and  her 
rubies,  and  her  beautiful  houses,  yet  Cuckoo  knew  that 
once  upon  a  time  she  had  believed  herself  to  be  in  love  with 
a  comparatively  penniless  subaltern,  and  the  fact  of  her 
contentment  cheered  and  lighted  Cuckoo  on  her  way. 

Cuckoo  at  this  period  liked  girls  who  had  made  rich 
marriages  and  were  happy.  One  or  two  cases  in  which 
her  acquaintances  had  made  financially  unsuccessful 
but  happy  marriages  she  avoided  instinctively,  as  one 
avoids  the  sight  of  something  certain  to  give  one  pain. 
Evie  was  blissful — she  was  blissful  because  she  was  rich, 
and  Cuckoo,  in  order  to  be  blissful,  must  be  rich.  She 
was  going  to  be  rich. 

The  little  walk  had  lent  a  look  of  greater  youth  to  her, 
and,  for  a  moment,  to  Bertie  as  well;  he  had  gone  to 
bed  early  the  night  before  and  his  eyes  were  clearer. 
Cuckoo  looked  at  him  with  a  proprietary  feeling  not  in 

220 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

the  least  betrayed  in  her  steady  little  face.  After  all,  he 
was  a  great  deal  better  than  Eve's  man. 

They  stopped  the  car  at  the  top  of  the  Heath  and 
walked  for  half  an  hour.  Cuckoo,  of  course,  was  used 
to  walking  and  loved  it,  and  Bertie,  who  detested  exercise, 
had  known  this,  and  because  of  it  had  brought  her.  A 
little  color  crept  into  her  thin  cheeks;  her  eyes  glowed 
as  they  met  the  fresh,  high  air. 

"Don't  you  miss  the  country?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  for  the  country  meant  Roseroofs, 
and  Roseroofs  meant  George,  and  that  way  misery — 
madness,  lay. 

"No.  I  like  the  country  in  summer,  but  I  should  never 
want  to  live  there  more  than  a  couple  of  months  in  the 
year." 

"You  couldn't  live  in  London  ten  months." 

"No,"  she  returned  carelessly,  "but  I  could  travel.  I 
like  the  South  of  France;  I  should  like  to  have  a  villa 
there." 

This  was  a  well-delivered  blow,  for  Bertie's  idea  of 
heaven  was  Monte  Carlo. 

"How  are  the  old  aunts?"  he  began  again,  after 
she  had  watched  the  idea  of  their  similarity  of  tastes  sink 
into  his  mind. 

"Oh,  they're  all  right;  much  the  same;  drying  up 
slowly,  poor  old  dears.  I  think  Aunt  Flora  will  blow  away 
some  day  like  a  dry  old  leaf." 

"And  how's  old  Loxley?" 

"Do  you  know  Dr.  Loxley?"  Cuckoo  asked,  figTiting 
against  the  stiffness  that  always  came  to  her  throat  when 
she  was  obliged  to  talk  of  George. 

"Yes,  he  sometimes  comes  to  town  and  always  comes 
to  see  the  Mater.  A  nice  old  fellow,  I  thought  him." 

"He  is  nice ;  he's  a  great  dear,"  she  answered,  and  then 
she  changed  the  subject  abruptly.  It  was  hateful  to  her 

221 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

that  even  the  thought  of  George  could,  so  to  speak,  come 
between  her  and  the  sun.  She  had  been  quite  happy  until 
that  unlucky  remark  of  Bertie's,  but  now  the  image  of 
George  standing  huddled  together,  with  his  collar  turned 
up  and  his  nose  red  in  the  wind,  by  the  Round  Pond, 
had  destroyed  her  peace.  "It's  a  jolly  good  thing,"  she 
thought  savagely,  "that  I  don't  know  where  he  lives,  or 
it  would  be  just  like  me  to  lose  my  head  and  bolt  off  to  see 
him,  and  upset  the  whole  apple-cart." 

The  owner,  as  Bertie  Fab  might  be  called,  of  the  apple- 
cart in  question,  walked  on  beside  her  quite  happily,  never 
noticing  her  change  of  mood,  and  this,  although  con- 
venient, incensed  her.  George  would  have  known  that  she 
was  put  out,  that  something  had  come  between  them; 
George  always  knew. 

Bertie  Fab  suddenly  looked  to  her  almost  Falstaffian  in 
his  unwieldiness,  and  she  set  her  teeth.  "I  will  not  think 
about  it,"  she  vowed  angrily. 

They  had  tea  at  the  "Spaniard's,"  and  then  got  into 
the  car  and  went  on  into  the  country  for  some  miles. 
Fabricius  did  not  break  Cuckoo's  persistently  recurring 
silences,  and  she  was  grateful  for  this,  though  she  need 
not  have  been,  for  his  lack  of  volubility  was  not  prompted 
by  any  consideration  for  her,  but  by  a  certain  Pasha- 
like  state  of  satisfaction  into  which  he  had  fallen.  He  was 
not  a  talkative  man,  and  it  was  an  unconscious  relief  to 
him  that  Cuckoo  did  not  demand  a  constant  flow  of  con- 
versation. He  liked  sitting  in  the  car  by  her,  watching 
her,  thinking  about  her.  No  thought  of  the  future  was 
in  his  mind ;  the  present  was  good  and,  orientally,  it  satis- 
fied him. 

It  was  evening — the  early  evening  of  a  winter's  day — 
when  they  reached  town.  As  they  came  to  Grosvenor 
Square,  Fabricius  spoke, 

"Shall  we  drive  straight  to  the  house?"  he  asked. 

222 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  was  taken  by  surprise  and  had  to  collect  her 
thoughts  before  answering  him;  then,  deciding  that  the 
time  was  not  yet  ripe  to  risk  her  aunt's  discovery  of  her 
increasing  intimacy  with  her  cousin,  she  answered  simply, 
"No,"  and  he  stopped  the  car.  He  looked  at  her  sharply 
as  they  stood  together  on  the  curb.  They  had  never 
discussed  the  necessity  for  keeping  Lady  Fabricius  in 
ignorance  of  their  friendship,  but  they  both  knew. 

"I'm  dining  out,"  he  said  slowly,  "but  I'll  go  to  the 
Club  before  I  come  to  dress.  Will  you  be  up  when  I 
come  in?" 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"No,  not  tonight,  Bertie.  I'm  going  to  see  Agatha 
Kenyon  for  a  few  minutes  now,  and  I  shall  probably  dine 
with  her  and  come  home  and  go  to  bed  early ;  I'm  tired." 

A  look  of  displeasure,  seeming  almost  physically  to 
blacken  his  face,  came  into  his  eyes ;  the  thick  lips  pro- 
truded a  little. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  shortly.  "Good-bye,"  and  he 
walked  off  towards  Park  Lane. 

A  slight  fog  had  blown  up  with  the  coming  of  the 
evening.  It  was  warmer  and  the  air  was  heavy.  Cuckoo 
turned  off  and  walked  towards  Bruton  Street,  where  Mrs. 
Kenyon  lived.  Bertie's  ill-temper  by  no  means  disheart- 
ened her  as  it  might  have  done  two  years  before.  She 
took  it  for  what  it  was,  and  it  gave  her  a  little  pang  of 
triumph.  He  would  miss  her  tonight  and  tomorrow  might 
be  rich  in  happenings. 

As  she  left  Grosvenor  Square,  a  hansom  came  round 
the  corner,  and  over  the  apron  of  it  leaned  George  Loxley. 
He  stopped  the  cab  at  once  and  joined  her,  although  she 
had  bowed  and  was  walking  resolutely  away. 

"Cuckoo,"  he  said,  "why  didn't  you  come  the  other 
day?  I  waited  for  over  an  hour." 


223 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"I — I  found  I  couldn't,"  she  returned.  "It  was  quite 
impossible." 

"But  you  said  you  would." 

"My  dear  George,  I  have  said  I  would  do  lots  of  things 
and  then  didn't  do  them."  He  looked  pale  and  tired; 
her  heart  smote  her  as  his  troubled  eyes  held  hers. 

"Look  here,  George,"  she  said  earnestly,  drawing  a 
step  nearer  to  him  in  the  falling  darkness.  "It's  no  use, 
you  know.  I'm  not  going  to  marry  you,  and  there's  not  a 
bit  of  use  our  being  together." 

"There  is  just  as  much  use,"  he  returned  slowly,  the 
end  of  his  nose  giving  a  little  jerk,  "as  there  is  in  food  for 
hungry  people,  Cuckoo." 

She  laughed  nervously.  "I  admire  your  simile.  That's 
just  the  trouble — I  can't  and  won't  be  a  hungry  person." 

"Do  you  really  mean  then  that  you  want  never  to  see 
me  again  ?" 

She  paused  for  a  moment  before  answering,  and  it 
seemed  that  she  was  really  and  seriously  considering  the 
question. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  think  I  do  mean  that." 

He  flushed,  a  deep  red  that  stained  his  cheeks  irregu- 
larly. 

"How  can  you?"  he  asked,  with  simplicity,  "when  you 
love  me?"  And  then,  for  their  future  weal  or  woe,  she 
blurted  out  the  truth: 

"I'm  going  to  marry  somebody — else,"  she  said.  "Some- 
body who  is  rich — so  now  you  know." 

He  had  known  that  for  the  past  two  years,  but  he  did 
not  say  so. 

"Are  you  engaged  now?"  he  asked,  his  color  fading. 

It  had  begun  to  rain  a  little,  and  as  he  spoke  he  turned 
up  his  coat-  collar. 

"Oh,  no,  not  exactly,  but — I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

"Cuckoo,  don't  decide  just  yet.  You  are  wrong  about 

224 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

money;  it  isn't  nearly  so  necessary  as  you  think.  I  have 
sold  two  pictures  already,  and  I  believe  I  really  am  go- 
ing to  paint  fairly  well  some  day.  Give  me  a  year's 
grace." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No.  It's  perfect  nonsense.  I  know  what  I  want. 
I'm  not  like  some  girls,  I  really  do  know.  I've  always 
wanted  the  same  thing.  Now  George,  please  let  me  go. 
Don't  try  to  see  me  again.  It's — it's  just  a  waste  of 
time." 

She  never  forgot  his  face  as  it  bent  towards  her  in  the 
wet  gloom. 

"If  you  really  mean  that,  Cuckoo,"  he  said.  "I've 
nothing  more  to  say." 

"I  do  mean  it."    After  a  minute  he  drew  back. 

"Then  good-bye,"  he  said  formally,  "and  I  hope  that 
you  will  be  very  happy." 

He  raised  his  hat  and  passed  her,  disappearing  round 
the  corner. 

For  quite  half  a  minute  she  stood  perfectly  still,  and 
then,  as  an  empty  hansom  passed  her,  she  hailed  it,  but 
she  did  not  go  to  Bruton  Street. 

Lady  Rachel  Jackson  lived  over  a  chemist's  shop  in  a 
small  maisonette,  whose  supplementary  postal  address 
was  Belgrave  Square.  Cuckoo  rang  at  the  little  door 
next  to  the  chemist's  window,  and  waited.  She  waited 
a  long  time,  for  it  is  more  difficult  to  live  near  Belgrave 
.Square  on  a  very  limited  income  than  it  is  to  live  further 
afield,  and  Rachel,  at  least,  was  obliged  to  make  up  the 
difference  in  the  number  and  quality  of  her  servants. 
Cuckoo  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps  looking  up  and  down 
the  depressing  street.  If  she  had  been  a  fool  half  an  hour 
ago,  she  would  have  turned  her  boat's  nose  towards  a 
harbor  less  smart  even  than  this,  for  George  could  not 
have  afforded  Alington  Street.  She  was  glad  she  had  been 

225 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

strong  and  sensible,  and  with  a  determined  shake  of  her 
•head,  she  pulled  the  bell  a  second  time. 

The  very  stars  in  their  courses  were  fighting  that  after- 
noon for  Hubert  Fabricius. 

Cuckoo  had  come  to  see  Rachel  on  purpose  to  confirm 
herself,  by  the  sight  of  Rachel's  poverty,  in  the  belief  that 
she  had  been  wise  in  refusing  to  marry  George,  but  the 
stellar  intervention  was  made  visible  the  moment  the  door 
opened.  Instead  of  the  usual  smartly-dressed  maid,  who, 
not  unsuccessfully,  tried  to  look  on  such  occasions  as 
if  she  had  never  heard  of  the  kitchen,  the  door  was  opened 
by  a  charwoman,  and  the  charwoman  was  not  quite  sober ; 
from  upstairs  came  the  miserable  wailing  of  children's 
voices,  and  there  were  unmistakable  signs  of  a  quite  un- 
usual degree  of  domestic  discomfort  in  the  little  house. 

Yes,  her  ladyship  was  upstairs,  she  was  in  her  bedroom. 
The  nurse  had  gone.  Would  the  lady  walk  up?  The 
lady  walked  up  the  tiny  staircase,  and  found  Rachel  in 
a  room  hardly  too  large  for  a  properly  developed  parrot. 
She  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  her  face  swollen  with  crying,  a 
bad-tempered  baby  on  each  arm,  for  she  had  accentuated 
her  indiscretion  in  marrying  Mr.  Jackson  by  presenting 
him  with  twins  at  the  end  of  the  first  year. 

"Oh,  Nicky,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  Mr.  Jackson's  wife 
exclaimed.  "I  can't  get  up ;  they  are  in  the  most  disgust- 
ing tempers.  They  are  both  getting  their  nasty  little 
teeth,  and  Nurse  has  gone  because  Alison  scolded  her  for 
being  out  late  when  we  were  going  out  to  dine,  and  it  made 
us  late,  and  Lady  Harrow  was  furious,  and  everything's 
perfectly  beastly." 

Cuckoo  sat  down  and  unfastened  her  furs.  A  sense  of 
perfect  satisfaction  had  come  over  her. 

"Which  is  Prunella  and  which  is  Yvette?" 

"Oh,  /  don't  know,"  gasped  the  exasperated  mother. 
"It  got  so  cold  I  had  to  put  their  jackets  on,  and  I  can't 

226 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

see  the  ribbons  without  taking  them  off.  It's  a  perfect 
nuisance ;  they  get  more  alike  every  day." 

Cuckoo  touched  one  of  the  babies  gingerly  on  the 
cheek.  "This  is  the  pink-ribbon  one,"  she  said.  "I  can 
see  through  the  jacket." 

"Oh,  then  that's  Yvette.  Oh,  Cuckoo,  what  a  nice  coat 
and  skirt !  I've  not  a  thing  to  wear.  Prunella  clawed  the 
ink  all  over  us  both  when  I'd  my  only  decent  skirt  on  the 
other  day.  I  suppose  a  baby  of  eight  months'  old  can't 
be  really  malicious,  but  sometimes  it  does  seem  as  if  Pru- 
nella was.  Yvette  is  much  more  amiable." 

Both  children  had  stopped  crying  by  this  time,  and  the 
two  girls  could  talk  in  comfort.  Things  were  going  badly 
for  Rachel;  even  Alison's  perfections,  it  appeared,  had 
lost  something  of  their  pristine  charm.  He  was  working 
in  a  Government  office  and  hardly  ever  came  home  to 
lunch ;  not  because  he  didn't  want  to,  but  because  it  was 
cheaper  for  him  to  get  it  at  some  restaurant,  and  then  he 
was  so  tired  at  night  that  he  was  cross. 

"Exactly,"  commented  Cuckoo  unconsciously,  but  with 
conviction. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Rachel,  surprised. 

But  Cuckoo  changed  the  subject.  She  didn't  stay 
long;  she  had  kept  her  cab  waiting,  and  as  she  left  her 
friend  and  went  downstairs,  the  smell  of  dinner  pervaded 
the  cramped  and  ridiculously  narrow  passage;  it  seemed 
to  her  to  be  the  symbolic  scent  of  smart  poverty.  She 
drove  home  as  if  she  had  been  Qleopatra  on  her  barge, 
feeling  rich  and  full  of  wisdom. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  FEW  days  later  Lady  Fabricius  gave  a  large  din- 
ner-party, and  Cuckoo,  who  was  very  alert  to 
anything  that  affected  herself,  knew  that  she  was 
in  some  way  or  other  involved  in  her  aunt's  unusual  inter- 
est in  the  mild  festivity.  Aunt  Marcia  was  very  particu- 
lar about  flowers,  which,  as  a  rule,  she  was  not  disposed 
to  be  lavish  with ;  Aunt  Marcia's  maid  had  also  been  sent 
in  great  haste  to  Bond  Street  to  fetch  the  new  frock  that 
her  ladyship  wished  to  wear,  and  which  for  some  reason 
threatened  to  be  late. 

"Why  don't  you  wear  black  velvet,  Aunt  Marcia?" 
Cuckoo  asked,  as  they  lingered  over  their  tea.  Lady 
Fabricius  coughed. 

"M'm !  both  my  black  velvets  have  lost  their  freshness," 
she  returned,  "and  Bertie  doesn't  like  me  in  black." 

"I  do,"  said  Cuckoo  bluntly,  "it  makes  you  look  so 
much  thinner." 

Lady  Fabricius  was  well  over  seventy,  and  Cuckoo  was 
only  twenty,  .but  Lady  Fabricius  answered  as  if  they  had 
been  exactly  the  same  age. 

"Can't  you  wear  that  last  frock — the  yellow  one  from 
Veinard's,  my  dear?  *It  makes  you  look  really  much 
plumper." 

"Who  are  coming?"  Cuckoo  asked,  taking  the  veiled 
reference  to  her  bony  structure  with  impenetrable  phlegm. 

"Oh,  nobody  in  particular — Lord  and  Lady  Harrow, 
the  Bartons,  Sir  Charles  Mowbray,"  the  old  lady  paused ; 
her  little  eyes  moved  restlessly  about.  "Oh,  yes — Lord 

228 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

And  Lady  Thorsway  and  their  girl,  and  that  man  HatH- 
ersage,  who  writes  novels." 

Cuckoo  stirred  her  third  cup  of  tea  reflectively,  her  face 
bent,  her  keen  gaze  hidden  from  her  aunt  by  her  eyebrows. 
Lady  Fabricius,  a  huge,  shapeless  mass,  bulging  and  boil- 
ing over  the  edges  of  her  chair,  had  her  back  to  the 
window,  and  Cuckoo  could  barely  see  her  face,  but  at  the 
girl's  next  remark,  she  could  just  perceive  her  aunt's 
change  of  expression. 

"He's  a  Marquis,  isn't  he,  Lord  Thorsway?  And  isn't 
the  girl  very  tall  and  fair  and  pale?" 

"H'm,  yes ;  it  is  one  of  the  oldest  peerages  in  England." 

"I  suppose,"  Cuckoo  said,  in  a  very  idle  voice,  "they 
are  going  to  try  and  marry  her  to  Bertie?" 

Lady  Fabricius  started,  rippling  in  her  chair. 

"My  dear  child,  what  a  very  vulgar  thing  to  say! 
How  should  they  try  to  marry  their  daughter  to  Bertie; 
although" — she  added,  in  her  voice  the  irresistible  pride 
it  always  held  when  she  spoke  of  her  son,  "why  shouldn't 
they?" 

Cuckoo  rose,  yawning  politely. 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  was  just  wondering  if  you 
would  like  her  for  a  daughter-in-law."  And  then,  with- 
out waiting  for.  an  answer,  she  hastily  excused  herself  and 
went  upstairs.  Her  aunt  was  neither  very  clever  nor 
very  reserved,  and  the  chances  are  that  she  might,  in 
default  of  anybody  better,  have  confided  her  plan  to  her 
niece,  and  this,  although  the  girl  had  no  idea  of  allowing 
the  plan  to  mature,  and  was  fully  bent  on  distressing  her 
aunt  by  marrying  the  desirable  Bertie  herself,  she  couldn't 
quite  have  borne. 

She  knew  Lady  Mary  Thorsway  a  little,  and  admired 
her  looks  immensely.  Lady  Mary  was  six  feet  tall,  and 
as  white,  and  flexible,  and  slim  as  a  peeled  willow  wand. 
She  was  a  silent  creature,  and  though  Cuckoo  knew  that 

229 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

this  was  because  she  was  dull,  she  did  not  make  the  mis- 
take of  expecting  other  people,  especially  men,  thus  to 
read  her  lack  of  volubility.  There  is  great  charm  in  the 
silence  of  a  very  beautiful  woman,  and  the  plain  and  un- 
silent  Cuckoo  knew  it.  So  that  was  Aunt  Marcia's  game 
— nothing  but  the  daughter  of  a  Marquis  was  good 
enough  for  her  beautiful  boy ! 

Cuckoo  dressed  for  dinner  and  went  downstairs  in  a 
condition,  so  successfully  described  by  the  French,  of 
having  le  diable  au  corps. 

She  wore  the  yellow  gown,  and  she  also  wore  a  high 
color  that  was  perfectly  natural,  and  there  was  a  brilliant 
light  in  her  strange  little  eyes.  For  two  or  three  days  she 
had  hardly  seen  her  cousin,  but  he  had  sent  her  flowers 
that  afternoon,  and  she  wore  a  few  of  them.  He  was 
waiting  by  the  fire  in  the  big  drawing-room. 

"Hallo,"  he  said,  when  she  came  in,  "what's  the  matter  ? 
What  makes  you  look  like  that?" 

"Aha !  I've  a  secret."  He  came  close  to  her,  his  blood- 
shot eyes  full  of  admiration. 

"You  imp!     What's  your  secret?" 

"What  would  you  say,"  she  retorted  gaily,  "if  I 
should  tell  you  that  'a  marriage  has  been  arranged !' J 
She  said  it  partly  to  tease,  partly  to  test  him,  but  at  the 
sudden  dark  flush  that  came  up  his  face,  and  the  queer, 
childish  pout  of  his  lips,  she  realized  the  value  of  her 
words. 

"Who's  going  to  be  married?"  he  asked.  "It's  you, 
Cuckoo.  Tell  me,  are  you  engaged?"  He  caught  her 
roughly  by  the  wrist,  and  she  noticed  that  he  had  been 
drinking. 

"Don't  be  rude,  Bertie.  I  never  said  I  was  going  to  be 
married,  but  if  I  were  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
hurt  my  arm." 

But  Fabricius'  jealousy  was  all  afire. 

230 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Cuckoo,"  he  stammered,  "don't  tease  me;  you — you 
can't  be  engaged;  it's  some  nonsense  of  mother's,  isn't 
it  now?" 

To  Cuckoo's  great  relief  Lady  Fabricius'  lift  was  at 
that  moment  heard  arriving  on  the  landing,  and  Bertie, 
without  a  word,  left  the  room. 

Cuckoo  went  in  to  dinner  with  the  novelist,  an  agree- 
able, absent-minded  man,  very  well  pleased  wjth  the  epi- 
sode in  the  drawing-room.  Things  were  coming  her  way, 
and  coming  rapidly;  even  Lady  Mary  looked  less  lovely 
than  usual,  and  Cuckoo  perceived  with  great  satisfac- 
tion that  Bertie,  who  sat  by  her,  was  silent  and  dis- 
trait. 

"He'll  be  wondering  who  my  man  is,"  she  thought.  "I 
wish  to  goodness  Captain  Browne  had  been  here,  or  any- 
one who  knew  how  to  flirt.  This  old  creature's  perfectly 
hopeless." 

Cuckoo  did  not  know  it,  but  it  was,  for  her  plan,  just 
as  well  that  some  flirtatiously  inclined  man  was  not  beside 
her  at  dinner,  for  she  was  not  a  flirt  by  nature,  and  flirt- 
ing is  an  art  that  can't  be  acquired.  Even  the  rather 
thick-skulled  Bertie  Fab  must  have  seen  through  her 
clumsy  efforts  in  that  direction.  As  it  was,  she  had  the 
satisfaction  after  dinner  of  seeing  her  cousin  make 
straight  for  her  when  the  men  went  through  the  ancient 
and  honorable  ceremonial  of  joining  the  ladies. 

Bertie  had  been  drinking  pretty  freely  of  his  father's 
very  best  champagne,  but  he  was  one  of  those  delightful 
men  whose  tempers  grow  the  worse,  the  more  they  drink, 
and  his  mood,  as  he  plumped  down  on  the  sofa  beside  her, 
was  almost  to  be  characterized  by  the  word  dangerous. 
His  face  was  brutally  red  and  his  unsuitable  violet  eyes 
blazed  at  her. 

"Look  here,  Cuckoo,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  have  a  talk 
with  you." 

231 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Fire  away,"  she  answered  lazily,  unfurling  the  fan  he 
had  sent  her  two  years  ago. 

"I  don't  mean  now.  I  mean  after  these  (damn  people 
have  gone.  Never  saw  such  a  dinner-party.  Never  was 
so  bored  in  my  life.  Stupid  owl  of  a  woman,  that  tall 
girl  in  blue." 

At  that  moment  one  of  the  footmen  came  up. 

"Sir  George  Porter  wishes  to  speak  to  you  on  the  tele- 
phone, Miss,"  he  said,  "and  I  was  to  say  it  is  very  im- 
portant." 

Cuckoo  seized  her  opportunity  like  lightning,  and  rose. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  little  affectation  of  confusion, 
which  was  extremely  well  done,  "I'll  be  back  in  a  minute, 
Bertie."  And  she  went  to  the  telephone,  to  be  told  by  a 
perfectly  indifferent  young  man  that  the  matinee  party 
he  had  planned  for  the  next  day  must,  for  some  reason,  be 
put  off. 

Cuckoo  knew  that  she  left  ;Hubert  Fabricius  fuming 
with  rage  and  jealousy  about  poor  Sir  George  Porter,  who 
had  invited  her  to  his  party  for  the  sole  reason  that  she 
was  the  friend  of  a  young  married  woman  with  whom  he 
was  very  much  in  love.  When  she  came  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room Bertie  met  her  at  the  door. 

"Who's  this  fellow?"  he  asked,  "at  the  telephone,  I 
mean." 

"Sir  George  Porter?  I  don't  know  who  he  is — he's  just 
Sir  George  Porter.  Bertie,  your  mother  wants  you,  she's 
beckoning." 

He  scowled. 

"Well,  will  you  come  to  the  library  tonight  after 
they've  gone?" 

"I  can't,"  she  said.  "I'm  tired,  and  besides,  it  will  be 
so  late." 

He  was  just  drunk  enough  to  be  obstinate.  "Then 
you've  got  to  talk  to  me  now." 

232 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  Cuckoo  could  see  her 
aunt's  face  flushed  and  distorted  with  vexation  and,  it 
seemed  to  the  girl,  dawning  suspicion.  The  time  was  not 
ripe  for  her  aunt  to  know. 

"Look  here,  Bertie,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "you  must  go 
to  your  mother ;  and  pull  yourself  together,  for  goodness* 
sake.  If  you'll  do  whatever  Aunt  Marcia  wants  you  to 
now,  and  be  very  agreeable — mind  you,  she's  looking  at 
us,  and  is  cross — I'll  come  to  the  library  tonight." 

His  face  cleared  a  little,  and,  making  a  visible  effort,  he 
composed  his  face,  steadied  his  muscles,  and  went  to  his 
mother.  Two  minutes  later  he  was  sitting  talking  to  Lady 
Mary,  and  Cuckoo  made  herself  useful  by  amusing  a  very 
tall  man  who  had  been  asked  at  the  last  minute  to  fill  a 
vacant  place. 

Lord  and  Lady  Thorsway,  quiet,  rather  dowdy,  middle- 
aged  people,  were  the  first  to  go,  and  by  eleven  o'clock, 
even  the  tall  young  man — who  naturally,  being  only  a 
stop-gap,  had  stayed  to  the  last,  as  they  always  do — had 
gone. 

Lady  Fabricius  was  radiant,  for  Bertie,  stimulated  by 
Cuckoo's  promise,  at  which  his  vinous  condition  had  sud- 
denly changed  for  the  better,  had  devoted  himself  very 
markedly  to  his  as  markedly  neglected  dinner-companion. 
Lady  Mary  was,  moreover,  so  truly  delightful  to  behold, 
that  no  man,  even  half-drunk  and  wholly  in  love  with 
someone  else,  could  fail  to  enjoy  looking  at  her.  She 
was  gentle,  and  unaffected,  and  sweet-tempered,  so  her 
charm,  of  course,  was  a  close-range  one,  and  Bertie  was 
not  nearly  so  bored  as  he  had  expected  to  be.  So  now  his 
mother  drew  him  down  to  the  sofa,  where  she  sat,  hideous 
and  jewel-bedecked  like  some  old  idol.  She  beamed  with 
satisfaction  and  took  his  hand  in  hers. 

"Very  pleasant  evening,  wasn't  it,  my  darling  boy?" 

"Very,"  he  agreed. 

233 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

She  had  the  primitive  wisdom  of  making  no  direct 
reference  to  the  object  of  her  little  plot,  but  she  had  a 
pleasant  word  for  each  of  the  other  guests,  and  Bertie 
joined  in  dutifully.  Sir  Adolph,  who  looked  rather  as 
if  one  of  his  liver  attacks  were  coming  on,  said  nothing. 
He  looked  very  small  and  remarkably  frog-like  and 
very  old,  Cuckoo  decided,  as  he  sat  a  little  apart  from 
the  others,  smoking  one  of  the  huge  cigars  in  which  he 
so  delighted. 

"How  perfectly  beautiful  Lady  Mary  is !"  Cuckoo  said. 
Sir  Adolph  eyed  her  sharply. 

"She's  better  than  beautiful,"  he  said ;  "she  looks  good, 
and  kind  and — and  straightforward,  Cuckoo." 

Cuckoo  returned  his  glance,  and  something  in  his  face 
gave  her  a  little  shock.  There  were  moments  when  it  de- 
pressed her  to  have  so  clear-sighted  an  uncle. 

"Nice  girl,"  Bertie  agreed;  "particularly  nice  girl,  I 
thought." 

"I  always  feel,"  Lady  Fabricius  remarked,  as  she  bade 
Cuckoo  fetch  her  stick  and  ring  the  bell  for  the  lift  to  be 
prepared  for  her  upward  flight,  "that  there  is,  after  all, 
a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  really  fine  blood.  I  suppose 
there  are  no  people  in  England  of  more  unblemished  de- 
scent than  Lord  and  Lady  Thorsway.  She  was  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  Duke  of  Cheshire,  and  they  were  pure 
Saxon " 

Leaving  this  pleasant  barb,  as  she  thought,  to  sink  into 
her  son's  heart,  the  old  lady  said  good-night  to  him  at 
the  door  of  the  lift,  Cuckoo,  as  usual,  going  up  with  her. 
The  last  the  young  girl  saw  as  they  ascended  was  her 
uncle's  wise,  ugly  face,  and  it  was  troubled  and  its  trouble 
troubled  her.  He  had,  she  knew,  smelt  a  rat. 

At  the  second  floor  stood  Rowland,  Lady  Fabricius* 
maid,  waiting  for  her,  and  leaning  on  her  arm,  the  old 
lady  waddled  slowly  along  to  her  room,  Cuckoo  following 

234 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

meekly  behind.  In  front  of  the  dressing-table  was  a  spe- 
cially built,  very  large  chair  that  turned  on  a  pivot,  like 
those  in  offices.  Thus  Lady  Fabricius  sat  down  with  her 
back  to  the  mirror,  and  when  she  had  raised  her  tiny  feet 
from  the  ground,  Rowland  swung  her  round  facing  it. 
The  old  lady  looked  at  herself  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of 
genuine  satisfaction. 

The  evening  had  been  successful,  she  thought,  and  even 
Cuckoo,  whom  fundamentally  she  did  not  like,  had  behaved 
well. 

"You  look  very  nice,  my  dear,"  she  declared  as  her 
maid  took  off  her  necklace  and  her  sagging,  ruinous  old 
neck  was  revealed  in  all  its  horrors.  "I  think  the  new 
chef  does  very  well,  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Cuckoo  answered  truthfully,  "I  never 
noticed  what  I  ate,  but  it  seemed  all  right.  Bertie 
stuffed." 

"I  thought  just  at  first,"  her  aunt  went  on,  "that 
Bertie  was  bored,  but  I  don't  believe  he  was." 

"No  one  would  have  thought  so,"  Cuckoo  answered  with 
care,  "to  see  him  talking  to  Lady  Mary  after  dinner." 

Lady  Fabricius,  who  was  now  wrapped  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  whose  head  was  being  denuded  of  its  wealth  of 
hair,  gave  a  little  chuckle. 

"Oh,  you  noticed  that,  did  you?" 

Cuckoo  retreated  in  order,  for  she  did  not  wish  any 
confidences.  Her  one  object  was  to  allay  any  suspicion 
her  aunt  might  have  had  of  her. 

"Mr.  Hathersage  was  very  amusing,"  she  said.  "He's 
been  in  the  North  Country  and  loves  the  moors.  By  the 
way,  Aunt  Marcia,  did  I  tell  you  I'd  had  a  letter  from 
Aunt  Flora?  Aunt  Effie's  much  better,  but  Dr.  Dawes 
sent  for  a  specialist  from  York,  and  he  said  she 
must  go  away  where  it's  warmer ;  so  they  are  starting  for 
Bournemouth  next  week." 

235 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Can  they  afford  Bournemouth?"  said  Lady  Fabricius, 
not  in  the  least  unkindly;  but  her  remark  irritated 
Cuckoo. 

"They  can  afford  Bournemouth  because  they  are  go- 
ing to  visit  some  friends;  Lady  Didcot,  who  was  Aunt 
Effie's  pupil,  you  know,  has  invited  them." 

"How  very  nice."  Aunt  Marcia  took  off  her  rings  and 
laid  them  on  the  table  amongst  the  ivory  and  silver  trap- 
pings. 

Cuckoo  looked  round  the  room  with  a  very  odd  feeling. 
It  might  'so  possibly  come  one  day  to  be  her  room.  If 
it  ever  did,  she  thought,  without  any  ill-will  towards  her 
aunt,  she'd  turn  the  head  of  the  bed  round  so  that  it 
would  not  look  into  the  light,  and  she  would  not  have 
a  crimson  carpet! 

"Well,  my  dear,  give  me  a  kiss  and  say  good-night. 
I'm  very  tired,  and  you  look  pale." 

Cuckoo  gave  the  outer  coating  of  her  aunt's  face  a  very 
gingerly  peck,  and  nodding  to  the  maid,  left  the  room. 

She  went  upstairs  to  her  own  room  for  a  moment  and 
sat  in  front  of  her  own  dressing-table,  gazing  absently  at 
herself  in  the  glass.  She  was  very  tired  and  would  have 
liked  to  go  to  bed,  but  there  was  work  afoot.  So  after  a 
minute  she  rose  with  a  little  sigh,  and,  giving  her  white 
cheeks  a  hard  pinch,  ran  her  tongue  out  at  herself  in  dis- 
gust at  her  own  ugliness,  and  then  went  quietly  and 
swiftly  downstairs. 

As  she  reached  the  library  door  she  paused,  startled, 
and  then,  as  the  door  opened,  stepped  quickly  behind  a 
figure  in  beautiful  damascened  Florentine  armor  that 
stood  to  the  left  of  it. 

"Well,  I  thought  I'd  better  just  tell  you,"  Sir  Adolph 
was  saying  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  "I'm  glad  I  was  wrong,  for  your  mother  would 
never  have  heard  of  it,  and  what  she  says,"  he  added,  with 

236 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

quiet  emphasis,  looking  up  at  his  son,  "goes,  you  know." 

Bertie  laughed. 

"Cuckoo's  a  dear  little  thing,"  he  returned  carelessly, 
"and  I  like  her,  but  you  needn't  have  worried  about  ray 
intending  to  marry  her.  Such  an  idea  never  entered  my 
head." 

As  it  happened,  this  statement  Was  an  unqualified  lie, 
but  Cuckoo  naturally  could  not  know  it  and  she  stood  in 
her  black  corner  rigid  and  breathless  with  the  most  vio- 
lent anger  she  had  ever  in  her  life  felt.  If  thoughts  could 
have  killed,  that  moment  would  have  been  Bertie  Fab's 
last,  but  they  can't,  and  the  two  men  shook  hands  undis- 
turbed. 

"Good-night,  my  boy.  Don't  stay  up  late,  and  remem- 
ber what  I  told  you  about  that  champagne.  It's  very 
good,  but  it's  stronger  than  you  know." 

"I'll  remember,  sir,"  the  younger  man  answered  with 
restrained  impatience.  "I'll  just  write  my  letter  in  the 
library  and  send  one  of  the  men  out  to  post  it — it's  a 
rather  important  one " 

"Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

Cuckoo  listened  while  the  two  sets  of  footsteps  died 
away  into  the  silence — her  uncle's  on  the  upper  landing, 
and  her  cousin's  as  he  closed  the  library  door.  She  didn't 
move,  for  she  knew  what  Bertie  would  do  next,  and  he  did 
it.  Two  minutes  later  he  came  out  in  his  stockinged 
feet,  a  bit  of  paper  in  his  hand,  and  went  noiselessly  up 
the  stairs.  When  he  had  again  gone  into  the  library  she 
in  turn  went  up,  past  her  uncle's  door,  and  up  another 
flight  to  her  own  room.  With  a  ferocious  scowl,  she 
picked  up  the  slip  of  paper  he  had  pushed  under  her  door 
and  read  it. 

Don't  come  down  for  about  half  an  hour  [he  had  written]. 
The  Pater  has  been  .a  little  tiresome.  I'll  turn  out  the  light  in 

237 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

the  hall  when  the  men  have  gone  to-  bed,  and  that  will  be  the 
signal  that  everything's  all  right.  I  am  longing  to  see  you, 
you  Httle  devil. 

BERTIE. 

Cuckoo  opened  her  window  and  sat  down  by  it.  It 
was  a  bitterly  cold  night,  but  she  was  not  cold.  So  her 
cousin  had  no  intention  of  marrying  her  and  had  just 
been  amusing  himself.  She  looked  out  into  the  star- 
pierced  darkness,  her  small  face  set  in  lines  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  one  of  the  Borgias. 

"I'll  get  even  with  him  for  that,"  she  muttered  between 
closely  shut  teeth.  "I'll  punish  him  for  that — oh,  how 
I'll  punish  him!" 

It  is  rather  remarkable,  considering  her  youth,  that 
she  had  so  much  wisdom  that  her  first  step  towards  the 
punishment  of  the  man  who  had  so  bitterly  wounded  her 
pride  was  to  lock  her  door,  undress,  and  go  to  bed. 

Bertie  Fab  waited  downstairs  for  nearly  two  hours, 
and  then,  comforting  himself  with  flagons,  but  in  a  tower- 
ing rage,  went  up  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Brighton, 

December  2yd. 
DEAR  AUNT  MARCIA, 

The  two  days'  sea  air  have  done  me  a  world  of  good  and 
my  cold  is  almost  gone,  and  Phil  and  Rosie  say  I  actually  look 
fatter,  which  will  delight  you.  I  am  sorry  I  can't  get  back 
tonight  as  I  wired  you,  but  Rosie  was  having  some  people 
dine  with  her  and  really  needed  me,  whereas  you  won't  really 
care  much  if  I  don't  grace  your  party  with  my  beauteous 
presence. 

I  shall  be  back  by  six,  and  am  so  excited  about  my  new 
frock! 

My  love  to  Uncle  Adolph  and  you. 

CUCKOO. 

Brighton, 

December  2jrd. 
DEAREST  RACHEL, 

I  hope  you  understood  my  telegram.  I  could  not  make  it 
any  clearer  as  it  was  raining  and  I  couldn't  go  out  myself  to 
send  it,  and  I  couldn't  wait  to  let  you  know  the  good  news. 
It  is  really  true,  and  we  are  going  to  be  married  just  after  the 
New  Year.  You  were  perfectly  right  in  saying  that  -he  -had 
not  meant  what  he  said  to  Uncle  Adolph  about  not  wanting  to 
marry  me.  Uncle  Adolph  had  smelt  a  rat  and  warned  him  off 
me,  so  to  speak,  and  he  was  naturally  keeping  things  pleasant. 
He  was  furious  with  me  for  having  thought  he  meant  it,  and  I 
suppose  I  was  rather  a  beast.  However,  it  doesn't  matter 
now,  and  I  am  so  happy  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Of  course 
there  is  bound  to  be  a  frightful  row;  the  Fabs  are  going  to  be 

239 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

furious,  and  it  isn't  nice  to  insist  on  being  the  daughter  of 
people  who  loathe  having  you.  But  we  shall  go-  away  at  once, 
for  he  hates  a  row  even  worse  than  I  do,  and  of  course  it  will 
blow  over.  Uncle  Adolph  wouldn't  mind  much,  poor  old  darl- 
ing, only  he  is  so  utterly  under  auntie's  stern  'thumb  that  he 
will  back  her  up  and  repudiate  and  cast  us  both  off.  Bertie 
has  four  thousand  pounds  a  year  of  his  awn  already.  His 
father  has  always  put  money  aside  for  him,  and  some  years  ago 
he  did  some  speculating  thing  and  settled  the  results  on  Bertie 
at  once.  Four  thousand  pounds  a  year  would  seem  genteel 
poverty  to  Rosie,  but,  after  all,  it's  better  than  a  poke  in  the 
eye  with  a  muddy  stick.  I  haven't  told  Rosie  because,  though 
she  is  a  darling,  she  does  chatter,  and  Bertie  doesn't  strike  me 
as  being  one  of  the  valiant  ones  of  the  earth,  and  I  am  sure  if 
auntie  found  out  in  time  and  made  herself  sufficiently  nasty, 
my  beloved  would  back  down.  However,  I  really  don't  mind 
him  so  much  as  I  thought  I  should,  but  I  shall  have  to  check 
the  brandy  habit.  Of  course,  he  never  gets  really  drunk,  but 
I  do  hate  the  smell.  He  has  promised  me  a  house  in  town  and 
a  villa  somewhere  near  Monte  Carlo.  I  hate  Monte  Carlo  my- 
self, but  I  da  love  the  Riviera. 

He's  given  me  an  engagement  ring,  and  it's  a  perfect  love, 
a  single  Marquise  diamond;  I  am  wearing  it  round  my  neck 
for  the  present!  Am  I  not  romantic! 

I  suppose  you  really,  in  your  heart,  think  me  a  perfect  beast, 
Ray  dear,  and  I  suppose  I  am.  I  should  hate  any  other  girl 
who  deliberately  went  to  work  to  marry  a  man  for  whom  she 
didn't  care  a  button,  just  for  'his  money,  but  I  was  always  like 
that  and  I  always  knew  I  should  have  to  have  money.  There 
are  so  many  things  that  seem  luxuries  even  to  rich  people  and 
are  not  luxuries  to  me  at  all — just  sheer  necessities.  I  know 
you  adore  Alison,  and  how  nice  he  is,  but  I  could  never  live 
in  that  little  house  and  be  -happy.  I  have  such  a  beast  of  a 
nature  that  I  should  simply  hate  the  man  who  made  me;  so 
don't  think  me  too  dreadful.  I'm  going  home  to-morrow  for 
Christmas  and  to  get  together  a  few  rags  of  decent  clothes. 
We  are  going  to  Paris,  but  I  don't  want  to  start  without  some- 
thing new.  I'm  frightened  to  death  lest  he  should  give  it  away 
before  it  is  over.  Poor  old  thing,  he's  really  ridiculously  in 
love  with  me. 

Well,  Rosie  wants  me  to  go  out  with  her,  so  good-bye. 

240 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Love  to  the  twins  and  Alison,  and  a  great  deal  to  your  dear 
old  self. 

From 

CUCKOO. 

P.S. — I  really  am  perfectly  happy.  It  seems  almost  too 
good  to  be  true.  My  "bundle  of  myrrh"  is  coming  to  meet 
me  at  Victoria,  but  we  will  part  after  the  first  raptures  are 
over!  and  I  shall  go  home  alone. 

Cuckoo  had  really  had  a  cold,  as  the  result  of  her  night 
of  rage  and  indignation  over  her  cousin's  supposed  per- 
fidy, and  it  had  pulled  her  down  to  such  a  degree  that 
three  days  at  Brighton,  suggested  by  Lady  Rosamund 
Brinkley,  were  advisable  as  well  as  pleasant.  It  was, 
moreover,  the  easiest  way  out  of  the  very  dangerous  situ- 
ation in  which  she  found  herself,  after  accepting  her 
cousin's  turbulent  and  imperative  proposal.  There  was 
danger  in  every  moment  that  the  two  were  in  the  presence 
of  either  of  the  old  people,  for  Bertie  was  an  emotional 
man  and  he  was,  moreover,  proud  of  his  disinterested  love 
for  his  cousin.  He  knew  how  strongly  his  mother  would 
object  to  the  marriage;  he  had  always  been  afraid  of  his 
mother  and,  in  an  odd,  innocent  sort  of  way,  he  saw  him- 
self in  the  light  of  a  martyr,  almost  in  the  light  of  a  figure 
in  high  romance.  His  German  blood  inclined  him  to  small, 
physical  demonstrations ;  in  his  soul  he  would  have  liked 
to  sit  on  the  sofa  and  hold  Cuckoo's  hand  whenever  they 
were  together.  He  had  a  most  perilous  trick  of  kissing 
her  on  the  stairs,  or  behind  a  just  closed  door,  and  his  eyes 
were  heavy  with  caresses. 

For  two  days  the  girl  hadn't  a  comfortable  moment, 
and  when  finally,  after  a  hairbreadth  escape  from  the 
vigilant  eye  of  Sir  Adolph,  her  strained  nerves  showed 
themselves  in  the  form  of  a  violent  headache  and  touch  of 
fever,  Rosie's  invitation  fell  like  manna  from  heaven.  She 
stayed  several  days  in  Brighton,  and  Bertie  had  written 

241 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

with  Teutonic  fidelity  every  one  of  the  days ;  besides  send- 
ing telegrams  of  an  unmistakably  amorous  nature  several 
times. 

This  way  of  expressing  his  devotion  irked  Cuckoo  to 
boredom,  but  besides  annoying  her  it  caused  her  a  subtler 
and  more  respectable  emotion,  something  remotely  akin 
to  the  shame  with  which  she  should  have  been  filled.  She 
was  ready  to  take  the  Fabricius  money,  but  it  would  have 
been  much  easier  for  her  if  Bertie  had  not  so  sincerely 
cared  for  her.  At  times,  after  reading  certain  of  his 
letters,  she  almost  hated  him  for  his  obvious  sincerity  and 
good  intentions  for  the  future. 

As  her  train  steamed  into  Victoria  Station,  this  feeling 
of  irritability  was  very  strong,  and  when  Fabricius  met 
her,  something  in  his  face  really  gave  her  a  pang. 

"My  goodness,  Bertie,"  she  said,  "don't  look  like  that ; 
everybody's  staring  at  you." 

"I  don't  care.  You  look  better,  darling.  Oh,  I  am 
so  glad  to  see  you." 

Barring  George,  he  was  the  only  man  who  had  ever 
made  love  to  her,  and  she  wished,  as  many  a  woman  has 
wished  before,  that  the  words  of  one  lover  did  not  so 
irresistibly  remind  her  of  the  words  of  another. 

On  the  way  to  the  Club  where  she  was  to  drop  him  she 
said,  suddenly  drawing  back  from  his  embrace,  "Now 
listen,  Bertie.  It's  all  your  wish  that  we  are  keeping  our 
engagement  a  secret  until  afterwards.  I  shouldn't  have 
minded  telling  them  and  facing  it  out,  but  you  didn't 
want  to " 

"I  could  see  no  sense  in  idoing  so.  You  know  what 
mother  would  be,"  he  returned  sulkily. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right — no  more  can  I.  But  there  is  no 
good  in  our  trying  to  keep  it  a  secret  if  you  are  going  to 
give  it  away  by  looking  at  me  like  that." 

"You  oughtn't  to  blame  me  for  looking  at  you  as  if  I 

242 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

love  you,"  he  protested,  not  unreasonably,  and  she  has- 
tened to  smooth  his  ruffled  feelings. 

"Look  at  me  just  as  you  like  when  we're  alone — dear," 
she  said  quickly;  "but  do  be  careful  before  your  mother 
and  father,  then  everything  will  be  all  right." 

Such  ab  he  was,  he  was  deeply  and  honorably  in  love 
with  her,  and  after  a  moment  he  promised  to  do  his  best 
to  fulfill  her  wishes. 

"Although,"  he  added,  "when  you  stick  out  your  funny 
little  jaw  and  that  dimple  comes  twinkling  in  your  face, 
I  can't  help  just  adoring  you."  He  kissed  her.  "I've 
found  out  about  the  special  license,  and  the  man  I  told 
you  of  at  that  city  church  will  marry  us  and  we  can 
catch  the  one  o'clock  train  for  Paris.  This  is  Tuesday, 
and  it  will  be  for  Saturday  morning." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Cuckoo  gave  a  start. 

"I  thought — I  thought  we  were  going  to  wait  till  after 
the  New  Year,"  she  protested,  a  dreadful  feeling  of  irrevo- 
cability weakening  her  voice. 

He  laughed  softly.  "No,  my  dear.  No  time  like  the 
present,  and  the  sooner  it  is  done  the  sooner  we  can  come 
home  for  that  fatted  calf." 

The  cab  had  stopped  at  the  Club,  and  after  kissing  her 
again,  he  left  her. 

"I  shall  come  in  in  about  an  hour's  time,"  he  said. 
"Please  wear  some  of  the  flowers  I  am  going  to  send  you. 
I've  got  you  a  ripping  Christmas  present." 

Cuckoo's  eyes  twinkled.  "What  is  it?"  she  coaxed, 
leaning  out  of  the  cab. 

"No,  I  won't  tell  you,  you  baggage.  It  is  to  be  a  sur- 
prise, but  it's  a  beauty " 

When  she  reached  South  Audley  Street,  Almond  opened 
the  door  and  told  her  that  her  ladyship  and  Sir  Adolph 
were  in  the  library  and  wished  her  to  go  to  them  at  once. 

She  nodded.  "All  right,  Almond."  Taking  off  her  coat 

243 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

and    veil,    she   went    to    the    library    just    as    she    was. 

"Hallo,  dears,"  she  cried  gaily,  running  in.  Then  she 
stopped,  looking  from  one  to  another  of  the  two  faces  be- 
fore her.  They  knew. 

"Sit  down,"  said  her  aunt.  Cuckoo  sat  down  and 
unfastened  her  gloves.  The  game  was  up.  She  felt  it 
in  the  marrow  of  her  bones,  but  she  was  not  without 
courage  and  her  blood  warmed  to  battle.  After  all,  Al- 
mond, or  Frederick,  or  that  foxy-faced  Walter,  whom  she 
had  never  liked,  must  have  seen  something  and  told.  Oh, 
what  a  "fool  Bertie  was ! 

"What's  the  matter,  Aunt  Marcia?"  she  asked,  very 
distinctly. 

"The  matter  is,"  burst  out  Lady  Fabricius,  stammering 
with  overwhelming  anger,  "that  we've  found  you  out, 
you " 

Then  Sir  Adolph  raised  his  hand. 

"Be  quiet,  Marcia."  Never  in  his  life  had  he  so  spoken 
to  her,  and  the  old  woman  was  hushed.  Cuckoo  turned 
to  her  uncle,  and  even  at  that  awful  moment  could  not 
help  paying  him  the  tribute  of  a  strong  admiration  for  the 
look  of  power  and  dignity  in  his  grotesquely  ugly  face. 

"The  matter  is,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  you  have  been 
planning  to  marry  our  son  without  our  knowledge  or 
consent." 

"Bertie  has  asked  me  to  marry  him,  certainly,"  she 
returned  steadily.  Then  she  broke  off  and  turned  to  the 
door. 

"It's  our  son  coming  in,"  Sir  Adolph  explained. 
"There  was  a  telephone  message  for  him  at  his  Club. 
We  of  course  knew  that  he  would  meet  you  and  that  you 
would  drop  him  there  before  coming  home " 

The  door  opened  as  he  finished  speaking,  and  Bertie 
came  in. 

"Hullo!"  he  burst  out.  "What's  up?"  Then  he  saw, 

244 


and  without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  went  and  stood  by 
Cuckoo. 

"I  suppose  you've  found  out  about  our  engagement." 

His  father  looked  at  him,  an  odd  look  of  pity  in  his 
face.  Cuckoo  quailed. 

"I  have  sent  for  you,  Hubert,"  the  old  man  said  slowly, 
"to  tell  you  something  that  will  make  you  very  unhappy." 

All  her  life  Cuckoo  was  glad  that  when  his  father  said 
this,  Bertie  took  hold  of  her  hand  and  drew  her  close  to  him. 

"It  won't  make  me  unhappy,  Father,"  he  said.  "For 
no  matter  what  you  may  say  I  am  going  to  marry 
Cuckoo." 

Cuckoo  pushed  him  away.  "Oh,  don't!"  she  said. 
"Please  let  me  go.  I  don't  want  to  discuss  this  matter 
and  I'll  go  to  Roseroofs  at  once." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  all  talking  about?"  burst  out 
Bertie,  losing  his  patience,  his  dull  red  flush  mounting  in 
his  face. 

"You  can  tell  him,"  Cuckoo  said  rapidly  to  her  uncle. 
"How  you  found  out,  I  don't  know,  but  I'm  not  going 
to  stop  and  hear  you  talk  about  it." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Cuckoo ;  it  doesn't  in  the  least  matter, 
their  having  found  out.  It  was  my  fault  that  we  didn't 
tell  them  in  the  beginning " 

But  old  Sir  Adolph  again  raised  his  hand,  with  that 
peculiar,  un-English  gesture. 

"As  to  how  we  found  out,  Cuckoo,"  he  said  slowly, 
"you  yourself  told  us." 

'7  told  you?" 

Sir  Adolph  drew  from  his  pocket  his  shabby  old  spec- 
tacle-case, and  with  great  deliberation  planted  his  spec- 
tacles upon  his  nose.  Then  he  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket 
— and  Cuckoo  knew. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  she  said  very  rapidly.  "I  mixed  my  let- 
ters to  Aunt  Marcia  and  Rachel  Jackson.  Read  him  the 

245 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

letter  if  you  like,  but  I'm  going  to  tell  him.  It's  this, 
Bertie.  I  wanted  to  marry  you  because — you  are  rich. 
And  Rachel  Tcnew,  and  when  you  asked  me  to  marry  you 
I  wrote  and  told  her  all  about  it.  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
listen  to  the  letter;  it  will  hurt  you,  and  I'm  very — well, 
very  proud  of  the  way  you  have  just  behaved.  I — I'm 
glad,"  she  went  on,  running  her  words  together,  a  blaze 
of  color  in  her  cheeks.  "I'm  glad  for  your  sake  that  they 
found  out.  I  think  if  I'd  known  that  you  were — were 
— what  I  know  now,  I  couldn't  have  been  so  horrid. 
Good-bye.  Good-bye,  Aunt  Marcia.  Good-bye,  Uncle 
Adolph." 

She  turned  to  the  door,  and  then  came  her  downfall. 
Bertie  stepped  quickly  in  front  of  her  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  door. 

"Read  the  letter,  Father,"  he  said,  "or  give  it  to  me. 
You've  got  to  listen,  Cuckoo." 

He  stood  there,  barring  the  door,  his  big  head  lowered, 
his  heavy  shoulders  lurching  forward,  his  jaw  set;  look- 
ing, in  his  anger  and  amazement,  much  finer  and  more 
manly  than  any  one  had  ever  seen  him  look — and  in  an 
unbroken  silence  Sir  Adolph  Fabricius  read  aloud  the  let- 
ter Cuckoo  had  written  to  Rachel  Jackson. 

"DEAREST  RACHEL, 

"I  hope  you  understood  my  telegram.  I  could  not  make  it 
any  clearer  as  it  was  raining,  so  I  couldn't  go  out  myself  to 
send  it  and  couldn't  wait  to  let  you  know  the  good  news.  It  is 
really  true,  and  we  are  going  to  be  married  just  after  the  New 
Year.  You  were  perfectly  right  in  saying  that  he  had  not 
meant  what  he  said  to  Uncle  Adolph  about  not  wanting  to 
marry  me.  Uncle  Adolph  had  smelt  a  rat  and  warned  him  off 
me,  so  to  speak,  and  he  was  naturally  keeping  things  pleasant. 

"He  was  furious  with  me  for  having  thought  he  meant  it, 
and  I  suppose  I  was  rather  a  beast.  However,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter now,  and  I  am  so  happy  I  don't  know  what  to  do " 

246 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Bertie's  face  relaxed  at  this  point,  and  he  made  a  slight 
movement  towards  Cuckoo.  But  Sir  Adolph  raised  his 
prominent,  light,  masterful  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  his 
son  did  not  stir  from  the  door. 

"Of  course  there  is  bound  to  be  a  frightful  row;  the  Fabs 
are  going  to  be  furious,  and  it  isn't  nice  to  insist  on  being  the 
daughter  of  people  who  loathe  you.  .  .  .  Uncle  Adolph 
•wouldn't  mind  much,  poor  old  darling,  only  he  is  so  utterly 
under  auntie's  stern  thumb  that  he  will  back  her  up  and  re- 
pudiate and  cast  us  both  off.  Bertie  has  four  thousand  pounds 
a  year  of  his  own  already.  .  .  .  Four  thousand  pounds  would 
seem  genteel  poverty  to  Rosie,  but,  after  all,  it's  better  than  a 
poke  in  the  eye  with  a  muddy  stick " 

Cuckoo  dared  not  look  at  Bertie  while  this  was  being 
read;  her  face  was  like  a  little  mask,  her  eyes  nearly 
closed.  Sir  Adolph  read  on,  his  voice  monotonous  and 
regular  as  if  he  were  reading  the  minutes  of  some  dull 
board  meeting. 

"I  haven't  told  Rosie  because,  though  she  is  a  darling,  site 
does  chatter,  and  Bertie  doesn't  strike  me  as  being  one  of  the 
valiant  ones  of  the  earth,  and  I  am  sure  if  auntie  found  out  in 
time  and  made  herself  sufficiently  nasty  my  beloved  would 
back  down  .  .  ." 

Sir  Adolph  raised  his  eyelids  and  looked  fixedly  at 
Cuckoo  as  he  read  these  words.  She  returned  his  gaze 
with  a  curious  detached  steadiness.  Then  she  looked  at 
her  aunt,  and  a  little  shudder  passed  over  her;  her  aunt, 
she  knew,  would  be  very  dreadful.  Sir  Adolph  had  paused, 
but  nobody  spoke,  and  he  read  on : 

"However,  I  really  don't  mind  him  so  much  as  I  thought  I 
should,  but  I  shall  have  to  check  the  brandy  habit.  Of  course, 
he  never  gets  really  drunk,  but  I  do  hate  the  smell  ..." 

At  this  Hubert  Fabricius  came  towards  his  father  with 
clenched  fists. 

247 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"That's  enough,"  he  said  hoarsely.     "Quite  enough." 

Sir  Adolph  bowed  and  put  the  letter  back  in  his  pocket. 

"I  thought  it  would  be,"  he  said  quietly. 

Suddenly  Cuckoo  saw  that  the  door  was  open,  and  her 
cousin  standing  to  one  side.  Grateful  to  him  for  his  for- 
bearance, she  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  her  aunt's 
voice  arrested  her.  What  Lady  Fabricius,  with  her  un- 
disciplined temper,  her  outraged  vanity  and  her  natural 
anger  for  her  son's  sake,  said  to  her  dead  sister's  daughter 
need  not  be  told.  She  was  so  violent,  so  ruthless,  so 
vulgar  in  her  unbridled  hatred  and  spite,  that  none  of  the 
three  could  think  of  anything  to  say  that  would  stop  her. 
Sir  Adolph  listened  horror-stricken  but  helpless,  and 
Bertie,  after  the  first  minute  of  the  invective,  walked  to 
the  window  and  stood  looking  out  into  the  early  night. 

Cuckoo  turned  and  faced  her  aunt,  her  position,  of 
course,  vastly  improved  by  her  aunt's  break-down. 
Finally,  when  the  old  woman  stopped,  literally  because 
she  couldn't  breathe,  Cuckoo  spoke. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Bertie,"  she  said,  "that  I've  hurt 
you,  and  I'm  sorry  that  I've  hurt  Uncle  Adolph,  and  I 
can  respect  your  anger,  but  as  for  Aunt  Marcia,  I  am  glad 
she  knows  from  my  letter  how  I  feel  about  her.  It  is 
perfectly  true  that  you  bully  Uncle  Adolph,  and  he  has  the 
patience  of  an  angel,  and  everybody  knows  it.  You've 
given  me  clothes,  but  the  money  which  you  settled  on  me 
because  I  am  my  mother's  daughter  was  not  your  money 
at  all — it  was  Uncle  Adolph's,  and  I'm  not  a  bit  grateful 
to  you  for  it. 

"Perhaps  Bertie  will  one  day  forgive  me,  but  I  will 
never  forgive  you.  I'm  ashamed  that  you  are  my  aunt.  I 
am  a  schemer,  and  a  plotter — whatever  you  like — but  I'm 
ashamed  of  being  your  niece." 

She  marched  out  of  the  room  and  upstairs.  It  seemed 
to  her  in  her  anger — anger  which  had  utterly  swept  from 

248 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

her  mind  all  feeling  of  disappointment  about  Bertie — that 
she  couldn't  live  another  minute  in  her  aunt's  house. 

"I  shall  go  straight  back  to  Roseroofs."  Hastily 
packing  her  dressing-case  with  the  things  necessary  for 
one  night,  she  drank  a  glass  of  water  to  steady  herself 
and  started  towards  the  door. 

Roseroofs !  But  the  aunts  were  leaving — had  left  that 
very  day — for  Bournemouth,  and  Esther  Oughtenshaw, 
she  knew,  had  gone  away  as  well.  Moreover,  she  had  no 
money — only  five  or  six  shillings  at  most  and  Rosamund 
Brinkley,  the  only  person  to  whom  she  could  have  gone 
to  borrow  a  little,  was  in  Brighton. 

After  all,  she  was  only  twenty  and  she  stood  still  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  sick  with  fright.  What  should 
she  do?  Even  her  uncle,  she  knew,  would  never  forgive 
what  she  had  said  to  her  aunt,  and  she  would  die  rather 
than  see  Bertie  again. 

Suddenly  she  saw,  on  a  little  table  by  the  window,  a 
large  square  parcel  in  thick  brown  paper.  Hardly  real- 
izing what  she  was  doing,  she  read  the  address.  It  was 
in  George's  writing.  She  could  hardly  have  been  more 
surprised  if  the  heavens  had  opened  and  one  of  the  Saints 
had  bent  down  to  help  her.  George! 

Tearing  open  the  paper  she  saw  what  it  was.  It  was 
a  small,  careful  painting  of  Roseroofs  in  the  early 
Spring,  in  a  plain  gold  frame.  In  one  corner  there  was  a 
note. 

DEAR  CUCKOO  [the  note  said], 

I  shall  do  as  you  ask  and  not  try  to  see  you  again,  but  this 
is  Christmas  and  you  must  let  me  send  you  the  present  I  had 
prepared  for  you;  for  I  do  want  you  to  be  happy.  I  shall  al- 
ways love  you,  and  no  matter  where  I  am,  I  will  always  come 
to  do  any  mortal  thing  for  you  that  I  can. 

GEORGE. 
249 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

She  stared  at  the  letter  for  a  moment,  then  she  laughed 
aloud.  There  was  his  address  at  the  corner  of  the  paper : 

i6A,  Barker  Street, 

Chelsea. 

Taking  the  picture  under  her  arm,  she  went  quietly 
downstairs.  Almond  was  in  the  hall,  as  servants  seem  to 
have  the  knack  of  being  at  crucial  moments. 

"Call  me  a  cab,  will  you?"  Cuckoo  said,  nearly  com- 
posing her  voice  to  its  usual  tone. 

"Very  good,  miss." 

The  man  went  outside  to  blow  his  whistle,  and  at  that 
moment  Bertie  came  out  of  the  library. 

" Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

Cuckoo  didn't  answer  for  fear  of  being  melodramatic. 

Bertie  Fab  was  obviously  shaken;  his  large  face  was 
white,  and  the  flesh  looked  loose  on  the  bones. 

"Cuckoo,"  he  said  awkwardly,  "you  mustn't  go  off 
like  this.  I  am  very  sorry  my  mother  spoke  as  she  did." 

To  her  horrified  amazement,  Cuckoo  burst  into  tears 
as  she  turned  to  the  door. 

Almond  still  stood  at  the  curb,  blowing  his  whistle. 
Practically  the  two  were  alone. 

"Donst  cry,"  Fabricius  said. 

She  turned  to  him. 

"There's  no  use  my  asking  you  to  forgive  me,"  she 
said,  trying  hard  to  control  herself.  "I  don't  deserve 
it,  and  it  would  be  ridiculous,  for  if  they  hadn't  found 
out,  I  should  never  have  been  sorry." 

"Good  God,"  the  poor  fellow  broke  out,  "neither 
should  I !" 

"But  I  am  sorry  I  have  hurt  you,  Bertie,  and  I  am 
sorry  I  hurt  Uncle  Adolph.  Don't  forget  that  I'm  sorry." 

As  she  spoke  a  cab  stopped  at  the  door  and  she  went 
out.  After  a  second  he  followed  her,  and  waving  the 

250 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

butler  on  one  side,  helped  her  into  the  vehicle,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  an  antediluvian  "growler,"  and  leaning  his 
hand  on  the  window,  he  answered  her. 

"I  shall  not  forget,"  he  said.  "Are  you  quite  sure, 
Cuckoo,  that  you  meant  it  all — the  letter,  I  mean?" 

Amongst  her  many  bad  qualities  was  the  good  one  of  not 
shrinking,  at  another's  expense,  from  pain. 

"I  am  perfectly  sure,"  she  said.  "I  did  mean  it  all. 
I  was  going  to  marry  you  only  for  your  money.  Tell  the 
man  to  drive  to  Victoria  Station." 

He  watched  the  cab  out  of  sight,  and  after  a  moment 
went  slowly  up  the  steps.  Almond  had  discreetly  with- 
drawn, so  he  shut  the  door  himself. 

Poor  Bertie  Fab! 


CHAPTER  XXI 

LADY  ROSAMUND  BRINKLEY  knocked  sharply 
at  the  window  of  her  car,  and  it  stopped. 
"This  must  be  the  place,  William,"  she  said  to 
the  footman,  doubtfully;  "don't  you  think  so?" 

William  knew  very  conclusively  that  it  was  the  place, 
for  he  was  a  denizen  of  the  lowish  neighborhood  himself, 
but  having  risen  in  the  world,  he  chose  to  deny  his  birth- 
place. 

"I'll  just  ask  at  that  greengrocer's  shop,  M'lady,"  he 
returned,  assuming  a  puzzled  look,  as  of  an  explorer  who 
has  lost  the  path  in  a  jungle. 

Lady  Rosamund  sat  forward,  her  chin  in  her  hand, 
Staring  curiously  at  the  sordid  street  and  the  few,  de- 
pressed-looking passers-by. 

Large,  luxurious,  two-manned  limousines  were  not  usual 
in  Barker  Street,  Chelsea,  and  several  children,  whose 
little  noses  needed  maternal  attention,  stood  staring  at 
it;  a  fine  rain  was  filtering  through  the  thick,  smoke- 
charged  air — a  huge  factory  chimney  was  near,  sending 
forth  oily  smoke — the  houses  were  small,  and  mean,  and 
dirty,  and  most  of  their  parlor  windows  showed  cards 
announcing  a  desire  for  lodgers.  The  car  had  stopped, 
however,  not  at  one  of  these  houses,  but  at  a  dingy  arch- 
way leading  into  a  courtyard,  and  above  it  stretched  rows 
of  tall,  narrow  windows  set  into  a  wall  of  blackened  red 
bricks. 

Lady  Rosamund  was  looking  for  Whistler  Mansions, 
and  this  dog's-eared-looking  building  looked  like  Man- 

252 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

sions,  or  a  Court — fine  words  count,  so  to  speak,  in  tfie 
world. 

William,  after  a  few  words  with  the  greengrocer's  wife, 
who  called  him  Bill  and  gave  him  some  hasty  information 
about  the  funeral  of  one  of  his  sisters,  returned  presently 
to  confirm  his  mistress's  foreboding. 

"Yes,  M'lady,"  he  told  her,  opening  the  door,  "it  is 
Whistler  Mansions." 

She  got  out,  refusing  his  professional  suggestion  that 
he  should  go  in  search  of  whomever  she  might  be  looking 
for,  and  disappeared  under  the  arch. 

It  led  into  a  broad  asphalt  courtyard,  to  the  left  of 
which  there  was  a  door  marked  Estate  Office,  and  to  the 
estate  office  the  young  woman  tripped  in  her  thin  shoes. 
She  was  a  brave  soul,  less  pampered,  despite  her  mer- 
cenary marriage,  than  Rachel,  and  her  nerves  were  sound, 
but  she  shuddered  a  little  as  she  went  up  stair  after 
stair,  following  the  directions  of  the  woman  in  the 
office. 

The  stairs  were  narrow  and  dirty;  the  cheap  iron  of 
the  banisters,  and  the  concrete,  gave  out  a  loud  echo 
under  her  footsteps.  It  was,  she  thought,  like  what  a 
prison  or  a  workhouse  must  be. 

At  last,  out  of  breath,  she  stopped  and  looked  in  vain 
for  a  card  or  a  name  on  the  three  doors  facing  her. 

"It  must  be  here,"  she  thought.  "Oh,  poor,  poor 
Cuckoo!" 

After  ringing  at  the  middle  door  and  receiving  no  an- 
swer, she  tried  the  one  to  the  left.  A*s  she  waited,  the 
door  on  the  right  opened  suddenly  and  someone  came  out, 
clattering  recklessly  down  the  echoing  stairs. 

Rosamund  turned  and  caught  sight,  at  the  turning,  of 
a  pale,  agitated  face  under  a  soft  hat. 

"Good  gracious,"  she  said  aloud.  Then,  without  wait- 
ing any  longer  at  the  door  where  she  had  rung,  she  went 

253 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

to  the  door  out  of  which  the  man  had  come,  and  rang 
there. 

No  one  answered,  and  she  rang  again.  Her  feet  were 
ice-cold  from  the  stones,  which  felt  damp  as  well  as  cold, 
though  of  course  they  were  not,  and  her  teeth  chattered 
a  little.  Presently  she  rang  again,  and  the  queer  hollow 
silence  that  broods  in  such  places,  so  easily  to  be  shat- 
tered into  thin  echoes  by  any  noise,  remained  unbroken. 
She  stood  at  the  top  landing  of  the  building,  and  on 
the  murky  skylight  over  her  head  a  heavy  rain  was  now 
falling. 

A  thought  of  him  whom  her  friends,  particularly  the 
hard-up  ones,  called  her  appalling  husband,  came  to  the 
young  woman's  mind,  and  it  was  an  affectionate  thought. 
How  frightful  to  have  to  live  in  a  place  like  this! 

The  silence  continuing,  she  at  length  knocked  on  the 
thickly  ribbed  glass  of  the  door  with  her  knuckles.  Then, 
shaking  the  handle,  she  called  close  to  the  keyhole. 

"Cuckoo,  Cuckoo,  let  me  in!     Cuckoo " 

After  a  pause  she  called  again.  "Cuckoo,  let  me  in — 
it's  me,  Rosie !" 

"Who  is  it?"  boomed  a  deep,  hoarse  voice  from  behind 
the  door. 

"Rosamund  Brinkley.    Let  me  in." 
Cuckoo  opened  the  door  and  stood  staring  at  her  so 
utterly  unexpected  guest. 

"So  it's  you,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  more  everyday 
key. 

"Yes — I — I  just  thought  I'd  come  to  see  you " 

They  shook  hands,  and  Rosamund  noted  in  Cuckoo's 
face  the  odd  kind  of  weariness  that  she  had  observed  in 
the  faces  of  poor  women  whom  she  had,  through  notions 
of  charity,  visited  uninvited. 

When  Cuckoo  had  led  the  way  into  the  large  room  that 
was  evidently  studio,  dining-room,  library  and  drawing- 

254 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

room  in  one,  Rosamund  threw  her  muff  into  a  chair  and 
turned. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  cried,  "aren't  you  a  little  glad  to  see 
me?" 

Cuckoo  looked  at  her  coldly.  "No,"  she  returned,  "not 
particularly;  why  should  I  be?" 

"Would  you — would  you  rather  I  went?"  Rosamund 
stammered,  feeling  the  most  inexcusable  of  intruders. 
"I  only  came  because — because  I  heard " 

Cuckoo  laughed  shortly.  "No,  I  don't  want  you  to 
go.  Sit  down  and  rest  your  legs.  Those  stairs  must 
have  tired  them " 

Rosamund  sat  down,  and  Cuckoo  went  on,  as  she  put 
some  coals  on  the  shabby  fire,  "Why  did  you  say  you 
came  ?" 

"Because  I  heard — about  your  poor  little  baby." 

Cuckoo  turned  from  the  fire,  brushing  the  coal-dust 
from  her  fingers.  "The  baby,"  she  answered,  indiffer- 
ently, "died  nearly  a  year  ago." 

"I  have  been  away  over  a  year.  We  were  in  Japan 
when  it  happened.  Oh,  Cuckoo,"  the  elder  young  woman 
broke  out,  "I  am  so  sorry,  dear." 

"I  am  not.    I'm  glad." 

Cuckoo  sat  motionless  as  she  spoke,  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  vacantly  on  the  space  behind 
her  caller. 

Rosamund  Brinkley  was  sincerely  horrified,  but  she 
did  not  speak,  for  she  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"Did  you  meet  George?"  Cuckoo  asked,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "He  went  out  just  before  you  came " 

"I — I  saw  him  running  downstairs.  He  didn't  see 
me " 

"No,  he  wouldn't.  I  suppose  you  gathered  we'd  had 
a  row?  Well,  we  had.  We  have  one  every  day  of  our 
lives.  Jolly,  isn't  it?" 

255 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"OH,  Cuckoo  dear " 

Cuckoo  laughed  again.  "But  never  mind  us.  Tell  me 
about  yourself,  Rosie.  I  really  am  glad  to  see  you  in 
a  way,  you  know.  How's  Phil,  and  when  did  you  get 
back?" 

"We  got  back  about  six  weeks  ago.  Phil  is  very  well. 
He's  going  in  for  politics.  He — really  quite  a  lot  of 
people — important  people — want  him  to.  He's — he's 
clever,  you  know " 

"He  always  was  clever.  And  I,  for  one,  always  liked 
him." 

Rosamund  blushed  suddenly.  "I  know  you  did,  dear, 
and — I — I  am  so  glad " 

Cuckoo  eyed  her  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  full  of  scrutiny. 
"I  believe,"  she  declared,  "that  you  are  in  love  with  him 
as  well!" 

"Oh!  How  ridiculous  you  are — and  besides,  what  <3o 
you  mean  by  'as  well?' ' 

Cuckoo  rose  and,  going  to  a  dresser,  took  down  some 
cups  and  saucers. 

"I'll  give  you  a  cup  of  our  delicious  tea,"  she  said, 
wearily,  "and  I  meant  that  it  seems  you've  got  every- 
thing. The  caring  as  well  as — as  the  rest.  That's  all." 

The  appalling  Mr.  Brinkley's  wife  did  not  answer  her. 
She  was  looking  into  the  fire,  a  shy  smile  on  her  plump, 
pretty  face. 

Cuckoo  went  into  the  next  room,  and  the  sound  of  a 
match  being  struck  was  followed  by  the  breathy  noise  of 
the  lighting  gas. 

Rosamund  seized  the  opportunity  for  a  survey  of  the 
studio.  It  was  a  large,  oblong  room  with  a  high,  grimy 
ceiling,  the  walls  were  distempered  yellow,  the  floor 
painted  black. 

The  scant  furniture  was  good  of  its  kind,  though  in- 
expensive, and  at  the  far  end,  under  a  large  window,  was 

256 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

scattered  the  paraphernalia  of  a  painter.  Behind  where 
she  sat  stood  the  dining-table,  still  piled  with  unwashed 
dishes.  An  air  of  neglect  and  indifference  hung  over 
everything;  the  brass  candlesticks  were  dull,  the  hearth 
unwhitened,  there  was  not  a  flower  anywhere. 

Beside  the  kitchen  door,  another,  half  open,  led  into 
the  bedroom,  and  Rosamund  could  see  an  untidy  dressing- 
table  crowded  with  blurred  silver  and  ebony  things. 
Cuckoo,  coming  in  with  a  tea-cloth,  noticed  the  observa- 
tion of  her  guest. 

"Love's  young  dream,  eh?"  she  remarked,  with  her 
short  laugh;  "the  traditional  cottage  at  least  has  a 
garden !" 

"It's  a  jolly  big  room,"  Rosie  protested,  faintly. 

"It  is.  Jolly  is  exactly  the  word  that  describes  it, 
and  George,  and  me !  Oh,  Rosie,"  she  broke  off,  dropping 
the  unfolded  cloth  on  the  little  table  and  stretching  her 
arms  out  in  a  gesture  of  wild  protest,  "how  I  loathe  it. 
How  I  hate  it  all!" 

"But,  Cuckoo  darling,  you  don't  really — you  can't, 
I  mean;  it  is  a  nice  room,  and — I  must  send  you  some 
flowers,"  she  concluded,  "they  always  help." 

At  this  inadequate  climax  Cuckoo  burst  into  a  real 
laugh  and  went  on  with  her  work  of  setting  the  table. 
"You  are  a  funny  old  plutocrat,"  she  said,  "and  I'd  love 
the  flowers.  Even  George  can't  object  to  them.  George," 
she  explained,  as  Rosamund  opened  her  eyes  wide,  "objects 
to  most  things,  but  more  particularly  to  gifts  of  any  kind. 
Aunt  Flora  and  Aunt  Effie  are  allowed  the  honor  and  dis- 
tinction of  conferring  benefits  on  His  Wife  (observe  the 
capital  letters  in  my  voice!),  but  no  one  else  may  give 
that  fortunate  woman  so  much  as  a  box  of  chocolates !" 

"But  who  else  is  there?"  Rosamund  asked,  in  good 
faith. 

Cuckoo  gave  her  a  sliarp  glance.  "I  see  what  you 

257 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

mean.  There  used  to  be  no  one,  of  course,  in  the  begin- 
ning, but  two  years  have  passed  since  Uncle  Adolph  was 
so  angry,  and  he — he  is  the  kindest  of  old  men — has  for- 
given me  long  since,  and — but  let's  have  tea,  even  cheap 
tea  is  better  than  nothing — and  I'll  tell  you  prop- 
erly." 

Lady  Rosamund  of  course  knew  of  the  various  hap- 
penings that  immediately  succeeded  Cuckoo's  departure 
from  South  Audley  Street;  the  romance  of  her  sudden 
arrival  at  George's  rooms;  their  scurrying  about  for  a 
room  for  her  that  night;  their  marriage  at  the  King's 
Road  Registry  Office  the  next  day;  these  things  had  at 
the  time  been  told  to  Rosamund  by  Rachel,  and,  in  view 
of  Rachel's  positive  asseverations  that  despite  everything 
Nicky  really  loved  George,  there  had  seemed  to  Phil 
Brinkley's  wife  every  chance  of  happiness  for  the  young 
couple. 

For  Rosamund  had  even  then  begun  to  discover  that 
her  own  happiness  depended,  incredible  though  it  at  first 
seemed  to  her,  less  on  her  husband's  millions  than  on  her 
husband's  personality,  and  she  could  not  regret  Nicky's 
having  been,  so  to  speak,  catapulted  into  the  arms  of  the 
man  she  cared  for. 

"It's  a  good  thing  she  did  make  that  idiotic  blunder, 
Ray,"  the  elder  sister  had  remarked  at  the  time;  "she'd 
have  been  miserable  with  Bertie  Fab." 

She  had  never  forgotten  Rachel's  stare  of  surprise. 
"That's  a  funny  thing  for  you  to  say,  Rosie,"  Rachel  had 
said,  and  she  had  returned  hastily: 

"I  know — I  know  what  you  mean,  dear,  but — well, 
Bertie  Fab  is  pretty  awful." 

It  was  at  about  this  time  that  the  subject  of  Phil 
Brinkley's  awfulness  had  begun  to  be  less  easily  alluded 
to  by  his  mother-  and  sister-in-law. 

"Rachel  was  dreadfully  upset  about — about  Mr.  Fab- 

258 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ricius,  you  know,"  Rosamund  went  on,  as  Cuckoo  refilled 
her  cup.  "She  actually  cried  about  it." 

"I  remember.  You  see,"  Cuckoo  elucidated,  "Rachel 
knew.  Knew,  I  mean,  what  all  this — this  'all  for  love 
and  the  world  well  lost'  business  really  means.  Heavens, 
what  fools  we  were,  and  what  an  almighty  mess  we  have 
made  of  our  lives!  Have  another  bit  of  bun?" 

"Is — is  George  well?"  Rosamund  asked,  after  a  while. 

"Well?  No,  he's  never  well,"  Cuckoo  answered  bit- 
terly. 

"Poor  fellow !  But  tell  me  about  the  Fabs — I  mean  to 
say  the  Fabriciuses." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  their  being  called  the  Fabs!  The 
Vicar  used  to  call  them  the  Fabricii.  You  mean  about 
the  time  after  the  battle?  Well,  I  heard  nothing  of  them 
or  even  about  them  for  nearly  a  year.  Bertie,  you  know, 
reajly  showed  up  remarkably  well,  considering  that  he  is 
Aunt  Marcia's  son — but  Aunt  Marcia  soon  talked  him 
round.  I  met  Almond,  the  butler,  one  day,  just  after 
he  came  back  to  town,  and  he  told  me.  Low  to  talk  to 
a  servant,  wasn't  it? — but  I  wanted  to  know.  It  appears 
that,  little  by  little,  Bertie  took  to  reviling  me  in  Aunt 
Marcia's  best  style " 

"But  surely  they  wouldn't  discuss  you  before  the  ser- 
vants ?" 

Cuckoo  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Wouldn't  they !  Oh, 
I  suppose  they  thought  they  didn't,  they'd  stop  when 
Almond  came  in,  and  begin  when  he  left  the  room  again — 
you  know.  And  servants  have  wonderful  ears.  At  any 
rate,  Almond,  who  always  liked  me,  seems  really  indig- 
nant. Poor  Bertie,  even  at  his  best,  was  never  really  a 
gentleman,  you  know,  and  Almond  was  rather  a  swell  in 
his  own  line.  I've  often  wondered,"  she  broke  off,  smiling 
reflectively,  "what  he'd  think  of  Mrs.  Peacock,  our  char ! 
But  I  was  going  to  tell  you  of  poor  old  Uncle  Adolph. 

259 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

You  know  he  settled  two  hundred  a  year  on  me?  It  was 
his,  so  I've  kept  it.  His  anger  was  pretty  fierce,  but  it 
was  just,  and  I  never  resented  anything  he  said;  well, 
George  has  only  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  his  own. 
Did  you  know  the  Vicar  was  dead?" 

"No.     Poor  old  man,  is  he  really?" 

"Yes,  he  died  eight  months  ago.  Heavens,  how  I'm 
wandering!  Well,  Uncle  Adolph  knew  we  were  horribly 
poor,  of  course,  and  it  appears  he  saw  me  getting  in  a  bus 
in  the  Strand  one  day,  and  knew  I  was  going  to  have  a 
baby.  So  just  before  the  poor  little  wretch  was  born  a 
box  came  with  the  loveliest  layette  you  ever  saw.  You 
remember  his  giving  me  money  to  buy  some  baby-clothes 
for  Ray?  These  things  came  from  the  same  shop,  and 
the  poor  old  darling  must  have  picked  them  out  himself 
— it — wasn't  it  sweet  of  him,  Rosamund?"  She  cleared 
her  throat,  and,  crumbling  a  bit  of  bun  with  her  thin 
fingers,  went  on  slowly,  "I — I  was  really  awfully  pleased." 

"Of  course  you  were,  dear." 

"I  spread  them  all  out  on  the  bed,  and — it  seemed  to 
make  things  not  so  hopeless  after  all — I  don't  mean  be- 
cause Uncle  Adolph  was  rich;  I  believe  that  for  once  I 
was  really  quite  decent  about  money,  in  my  mind — but 
about  the  baby,  and — us." 

Rosamund  laid  her  hand  on  her  friend's. 

"And  then,"  Cuckoo  went  on,  the  softness  leaving  her 
eyes  and  her  voice,  "George  came  home  and — made  me 
send  the  things  back." 

"But — I  thought  George  Loxley  such  a  gentle  crea- 
ture  " 

"You  haven't  had  the  privilege  of  knowing  George 
Loxley  the  husband!  Oh,  yes,  he  was  very  much  the 
husband  on  that  occasion.  'My  wife;  my  child;  my 
honor.'  Oh,  such  wretched  sentimental  twaddle  as  he 
talked!  However,  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  fight,  so  I 

260 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

sent  the  things  back.  He  wouldn't  even  let  me  write  a 
note  to  explain!" 

"But,  Nicky,  I  don't  see  why  he  did  it.  There  was  no 
sense  in  it.  The  old  man  is  your  uncle,  and  he  hadn't 
ever  been  horrid  to  you " 

"That  made  no  difference.  He's  Aunt  Marcia's  hus- 
band and  Bertie's  father,  and  that  was  enough." 

Rosamund  thought  for  a  moment.  "Perhaps  it  is  a 
kind  of  jealousy.  He  may  still  resent  your  having  been 
willing  to  marry  Mr.  Fabricius,  and,  what's  more,  he  may 
be  jealous  that  he  can't  give  you  beautiful  things. 
Jealousy  shows  itself  in  the  very  oddest  ways,  you 
know " 

Cuckoo  nodded.  ''No  doubt  it  was  something  of  the 
kind.  He  was  very  fond  of  me  in  those  days, 
of  course " 

"But" — something  in  her  own  inner  life  was  giving 
Rosamund  Brinkley  an  odd,  new  shyness  in  speaking  of 
great  things,  so  she  hesitated  as  she  asked  her  question, 
"you  don't  mean  that  he — doesn't  love  you  now?" 

"Of  course  he  doesn't,  but — here  he  is — you  can  judge," 
Cuckoo  answered,  with  that  very  ugliest  of  all  facial  dis- 
tortions, a  sneer,  "for  yourself." 

George  Loxley  escorted  his  wife's  caller  to  her  car  with 
the  same  cold  indifference  that  had  marked  their  whole 
interview.  His  cousin,  who  had  always  known  him  very 
slightly,  was  struck^with  the  change  in  him,  and  on  her 
•way  home  she  thought  more  of  him  than  of  Cuckoo. 

His  boyish  sweetness  of  aspect  was  utterly  gone;  his 
face  was  lined,  his  voice  full  of  a  weary  passivity,  his  very 
eyes  looked  different. 

He  told  her  that  he  was  still  painting,  adding  casually, 
"I  paint  very  badly,  you  know,  so  of  course  I  sell  once  in 
a  while " 

There  was  about  Cuckoo  an  activity  of  misery  that  in 

261 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  way  was  less  dreadful  to  see  than  this  five-and-twenty- 
year-old  boy's  springless,  passive  indifference. 

"Poor,  poor  George,"  Rosamund  thought,  as  she  rang 
her  door-bell.  "I  must  get  Phil  to  buy  one  of 
his  things " 

"Mr.  Brinkley  is  in  the  library,  my  lady,"  the  butler 
told  her,  "and  would  like  your  ladyship  to  go  to  speak 
to  him " 

As  she  went  down  the  hall  the  young  woman  buried  her 
face  for  a  moment  in  her  muff,  and  when  she  raised  her 
head  a  beautiful  tremulous  smile  illuminated  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHEN  George  Loxley  went  upstairs  after  seeing 
his  cousin  Rosamund's  car  glide  away  up  the 
sordid  street,  he  met  his  wife  on  the  first  land- 
ing coming  down. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"For  a  walk,"  she  returned. 

"It's  six,  and  it's  simply  pouring " 

"That  doesn't  matter.    Don't  expect  me  till  I'm  back." 

They  spoke  with  that  assumption  of  politeness  that  is, 
of  all  demonstrations,  the  most  disheartening  between  a 
man  and  wife  who  are  quarreling;  their  eyes  looked  be- 
yond each  other. 

"Very  well.  If  I  go  out  I'll  leave  the  key  under  the 
mat." 

Cuckoo  walked  to  the  Embankment  and  slowly  along 
it.  The  streets  were  empty,  for  it  was  a  miserable  even- 
ing, and  would  soon  be  night.  The  trees  in  Battersea 
Park  were  already  partly  denuded  of  their  leaves,  and  the 
water  between  Cuckoo  and  them  was  dark  and  swollen. 
On  her  left,  windows  were  now  lighted,  and  several  times 
she  caught  the  extension  of  an  arm  and  the  descent  of  a 
blind;  these  things  gave  her  a  little  added  grievance — a 
shut-out,  homeless  feeling.  Once  a  hurrying  cab  splashed 
her  with  mud  at  a  crossing,  and  she  wiped  her  face  on  her 
coat  sleeve  as  a  tramp  woman  might  have  done.  She  was 
going  nowhere  in  particular,  but  she  walked  quickly,  keep- 
ing time  with  her  reflections. 

Rosamund  Brinkley's  unexpected  visit  had,  so  to  speak, 
stirred  up  the  torpid  waters  of  her  thoughts ;  for  a  long 

263 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

time  she  had  been  growing  into  a  dull,  resistanceless  con- 
dition into  which  her  quarrels  with  her  husband  brought  a 
kind  of  irritated  amusement.  She  had  begun  to  feel  that 
there  was  for  her  nothing  else  in  the  world  but  this 
weary,  hopeless  round  of  shiftless,  monotonous  unhappi- 
ness. 

In  the  early  days  their  quarrels  had  usually  ended  in 
reconciliation,  and  sometimes  in  a  brief  renewal  of  happi- 
ness, but  this  had  long  since  ceasedi  Now  they  had  ar- 
rived at  a  condition  of  utter  weariness,  and  each  of 
them,  spent  with  anger,  would  slowly  realize  the  profit- 
lessness  of  wrangling,  and  offer  listless,  indifferent  apolo- 
gies that  would  be  met  by  the  other  in  the  same  spirit  of 
apathy. 

"I'm  sorry,  Nicky,"  George  would  say,  "I  beg  your 
pardon";  and  she  would  answer:  "Oh,  it  doesn't  matter, 
George;  all  right." 

Or  she  would  say,  after  some  wild  flight  of  invective : 

"I  was  a  beast  to  lose  my  temper.  Sorry."  His  an- 
swer to  which  would  be:  "You've  been  no  worse  than  I 
have.  It  doesn't  matter" — and  to  this  the  girl  had  been 
slowly  growing  inured;  years  of  such  days  seemed  to  lie 
before  her  in  gray  horror  and  monotony.  But  Rosie's 
visit  had  somehow  disturbed  this  mental  condition.  After 
all,  there  was  happiness  in  the  world,  and  not  far  remote 
from  her.  George  and  she,  through  their  solitary  life, 
had  grown  to  be  of  irrational,  disproportionate  import- 
ance to  one  another,  and  now  she  grasped  the  fact  that 
their  whole  perspective  was  out  of  gear.  As  she  walked 
in  the  rain,  it  seemed  to  her  that,  instead  of  being  in 
the  middle  of  an  endless  straight  road  from  which  she 
could  never  turn  aside,  she  had  suddenly  come  to  cross- 
roads. Without  any  definite  plan  for  escape,  the  feeling 
was  growing  within  her  that  soon  escape  might  be  by  no 
means  impossible.  Ever  since  the  episode  of  the  layette 

264 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

she  had  felt  something  like  hatred  for  her  husband,  and 
unconsciously,  in  a  kind  of  self-defence,  she  had  strength- 
ened this  hatred  by  mentally  dwelling  on  little  peculiari- 
ties of  his  that,  but  for  the  great  fact  of  their  poverty 
and  what  she  considered  his  idiotic  refusal  of  help  from 
Sir  Adolph,  would  have  been  regarded  by  her  with  indul- 
gence, if  not  with  actual  tenderness. 

She  was  very  healthy  herself — wiry  and  sound  to  the 
core — and  George's  constitutional  delicacy,  since  she  Kad 
been  obliged  to  live  with  it  at  close  quarters  with  but  little 
of  amusement  or  interest  to  draw  her  mind  from  it,  had 
from  the  beginning  irritated  her  intensely.  He  had  a 
little  throat-spray  which  he  used  as  a  preventive  against 
colds,  the  very  sight  of  which,  after  the  first  few  months, 
drove  her  to  a  frenzy  of  malicious  anger.  This  was  one 
of  the  hundred  little  pinpricks  from  which  collectively  she 
bled.  They  seemed  to  her,  with  her  exasperated  nerves, 
even  worse  than  the  big  fact  that  on  the  Vicar's  death 
George  had  been  obliged  to  pay  out  something  like  three 
hundred  pounds  to  cover  the  effects  of  some  speculations 
the  old  man  had  innocently  been  drawn  into  on  the  occa- 
sion of  one  of  his  visits  to  London  on  some  book-hunting 
prowl;  or  the  other  fact  that  there  were  various  book- 
sellers' bills  and  such  minor  matters  that  had  further 
depleted  young  Loxley's  purse. 

Cuckoo  had  been  fond  of  the  Vicar  but  when  the  fact 
of  his  indiscretion  had  been  made  clear  to  her,  and  she 
realized  that  she  had  to  suffer  for  the  old  man's  stupidity, 
her  feeling  had  turned  to  one  of  impatient  loathing.  After 
their  marriage  they  had  lived  some  six  months  in  a  village 
on  the  South  Coast,  and  at  the  end  of  this  six  months  the 
fact  that  she  had  made  a  hopeless  and  irrevocable  mis- 
take had  turned  the  girl  so  bitterly  against  her  husband 
that  at  last,  after  some  quarrel,  he,  too,  had  lost  his 
temper  and  reminded  her — and  this  she  had  never  for- 

265 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

given  him — that,  after  all,  their  marrying  had  been  more 
her  doing  than  his. 

George's  gentle  spirit  had  suffered  limitlessly  from 
shame  and  horror  for  this  speech,  but  he  had  made  it,  and 
Cuckoo  was  of  those  women  who  never  quite  forget. 

On  her  two  hundred  and  George's  one  hundred  pounds 
they  had  lived  for  a  while  in  rooms  on  their  return  to 
town,  and  after  the  birth  and  death  of  the  child,  George, 
ill  and  feverish  himself,  and  worried  to  death  by  the  fact 
that  Cuckoo,  in  her  utter  indifference,  did  not  recover 
as  she  should  have  done,  committed  the  great  and  unfor- 
givable folly  of  not  only  speculating  with  his  tiny  capital, 
but  actually  of  speculating  under  the  advice  of  the  very 
man  who  had  so  disastrously  counselled  the  grandfather. 
At  this  Cuckoo  had  undoubtedly  a  right  to  be  angry,  but 
George  had  an  equal  right  to  be  angry  with  her  cruel 
expositions  of  her  wrath,  and  he  broke  down  under  the 
awful  trial  of  having  for  the  next  few  months  to  live 
entirely  on  her  money.  Too  ill  to  paint,  too  unhappy  to 
read,  his  nerve  utterly  broken,  he  was  indeed  an  almost 
unbearable  housemate ;  and  any  woman  who  was  his  wife 
would  have  deserved  pity.  Moreover,  he  had  suffered  in 
the  loss  of  the  poor  little  baby,  for,  manlike,  he  had  hoped 
that  the  child's  coming  might  have  proved  a  bridge  be- 
tween him  and  Cuckoo.  His  anger  with  her  for  her  un- 
feigned indifference  to  the  death  of  the  child,  who — and 
this  seemed  to  George  to  make  it  worse — was  a  girl,  was 
a  just  anger,  but  in  his  turn,  he,  too,  had  blundered  in 
the  expression  of  what  he  felt,  and  Cuckoo  never  forgave 
him  for  some  of  the  ways  in  which  he  had  shown  her  that 
he  could  never  forgive  her  for  her  lack  of  motherly  feeling. 

These  things  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse,  and  in  the 
hopeless,  tragic  jumble  in  which  the  two  young  people 
found  themselves  at  the  end  of  their  second  year  of  mar- 
riage, Rosamund  Brinkley's  visit  seemed  to  have  some- 

266 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

how  lit  one  little  star  of  hope ;  and  just  because  the  high 
gods  have  an  imperishable  sense  of  humor,  it  chanced  that 
afternoon  that  a  large  and  vainglorious  touring  car  un- 
derwent, near  the  timber  yard  on  the  Embankment,  a 
humiliating  minor  accident  of  some  kind  that  caused  it  to 
be  stopped  at  the  curb  while  the  chauffeur  performed 
some  small  operation  on  its  interior. 

Cuckoo  wore  a  shabby  coat  and  skirt  and  a  cheap  yel- 
low oilskin  coat.  Through  the  oilskin  coat  the  lithe  lines 
of  her  figure  were  visible  as  a  fly  is  visible  in  amber,  and 
between  its  high  collar  and  her  little  dark  hat  her  angry, 
brooding  face,  white  as  chalk,  with  close-drawn  brows 
and  swollen  scarlet  mouth,  was,  in  the  dismal,  rain-swept 
street,  as  poignant  and  tragic  as  a  bare  stiletto.  She 
had,  perhaps,  never  in  her  life  looked  so  arresting  as, 
making  her  way  over  the  muddy  crossing,  she  drew  near 
to  the  car.  And  in  the  car  sat  the  person  of  all  people 
who  could  observe  and  appreciate  her  face. 

A  big  man  in  a  rough  frieze  coat  on  which  the  rain- 
drops lay  as  dew  lies  on  cobwebs  in  the  morning,  sat  in 
the  back  of  the  car.  A  man  with  a  striking  un-English 
face,  clean-cut,  noble  in  outline ;  the  face  of  one  who  was, 
in  some  way,  a  leader  or  commander.  Cuckoo  glanced 
at  him  as  she  paused,  and  the  blaze  of  interest — it  seemed 
almost  of  recognition — in  his  splendid  dark  eyes,  fairly 
stopped  her  rapid  walk.  So  close  did  he  seem  to  come 
to  her  in  that  intent  look  that  yet  was  not  a  stare,  that 
she  all  but  bowed. 

"What  a  splendid  old  man !"  she  thought,  as  she  hurried 
on  in  the  dusk. 

As  she  passed  Westminster  Abbey  a  car  passed  her 
from  behind,  and,  turning,  she  saw  that  it  was  the  man 
she  had  noticed  a  few  minutes  before.  He  was  leaning 
forward  without  his  hat,  and  the  rapid  rush  through  the 
air  had  ruffled  his  hair,  which  was  quite  gray. 

267 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  knew  that  he  had  turned  and  followed  her — 
although  he  passed  and  didn't  come  back — on  purpose  for 
another  look  at  her,  and,  although  among  her  many  faults 
there  had  never  been  the  ignoble  one  of  indiscriminate 
flirtation  and  though  her  personal  dignity  had  always 
been  very  great,  she  was  glad.  It  was  something  to  her 
after  all  her  months  of  hopeless  dullness  and  dull  hope- 
lessness— much  to  her — that  a  man  of  such  obvious  im- 
portance and  charm  as  this  old  stranger  should  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  follow  her  in  her  thirty-shilling  coat 
and  her  three-year-old  hat.  It  gave  her  a  long-forgotten 
sense  of  power  as  well  as  a  minor  one  of  pleased  vanity. 

George,  she  knew,  would  go  to  his  club,  a  humble  club 
of  minor  painters  and  literary  men  held  at  a  little  restau- 
rant near  their  house.  He  would  dine  there  and  sit  and 
smoke  until  he  believed  her  to  be  asleep,  so  there  was  no 
hurry  for  her  to  get  home.  Suddenly  an  idea  struck  her, 
and  by  means  of  a  couple  of  buses  she  achieved  a  point 
near  South  Audley  Street.  She  would  go  and  have  a 
look  at  65s.  Since  the  day  she  had  left  it  she  had  never 
set  eyes  on  the  house. 

As  she  went  along  Curzon  Street  she  saw  that  it  was 
the  hour  when  the  earlier  diners,  those  who  were  bound 
for  the  theater,  set  out  for  the  evening.  Cars  stood  at 
several  doors,  and  more  than  one  door  opened  as  she 
passed,  giving  her  a  glimpse  of  comfortable  halls,  as  well- 
dressed  men  and  women,  under  carefully  held  umbrellas, 
hurried  to  their  cars.  It  was  a  long  time  since  Cuckoo 
had  seen  women  in  evening  dress,  and  the  sight  of  their 
bare  shoulders  and  jewels,  and  particularly  of  their  deli- 
cate satin-shod  feet,  gave  her  an  almost  physical  pang 
of  jealousy.  Fool,  thrice  fool  that  she  had  been! 

Nobody  noticed  her.  She  was,  to  these  people  to  whose 
caste  she  belonged,  merely  a  scurrying,  wet-footed  little 
work-girl  going  home.  No  one  turned  to  look  at  her  even, 

268 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

except  one  flaccid-faced  butler,  who,  as  he  crossed  his 
master's  door,  condescended  to  bestow  on  her  an  abom- 
inable leer. 

No.  65,  South  Audley  Street,  she  found,  was  either 
closed  or  empty,  and  partly  because  her  aunt's  car,  a 
new  one  she  noticed,  was  standing  before  the  door,  and 
partly  because  she  suddenly  found  herself  extremely  tired, 
she  sat  down  on  the  step  in  the  shadow  of  the  balustrade. 
Someone  was  giving  a  party  nearly  opposite  and  a  con- 
stant stream  of  cars  and  carriages  came  up  to  the  door. 
Amongst  the  people  who  got  out  of  them  was  that  Sir 
George  Porter,  whose  telephone  message  she  had  made 
such  good  use  of  centuries  before  it  seemed,  with  Bertie 
Fabricius. 

Cuckoo  wondered  what  had  become  of  poor  little 
Captain  Browne,  the  only  man  of  all  she  had  met  at  her 
aunt's,  except  Bertie,  who  had  cared  for  her,  or  even, 
she  realized  now,  really  liked  her.  She  was  very  wet,  her 
feet  ached,  her  little  old  hat,  pierced  by  many  pins,  let 
the  water  through  on  to  her  hair;  but  in  an  odd  way  she 
liked  being  wet  and  miserable ;  it  increased  the  feeling  that 
had  come  to  her  that  Rosie's  visit  had  marked,  not  so 
much  a  beginning  of  a  period  in  her  life,  as  an  end.  She 
did  not  know  what  was  going  to  begin  but  she  knew  that 
something  was,  because  it  grew  clearer  to  her  with  every 
moment  that  her  recent  life  with  George  had  come,  so  to 
speak,  to  an  end. 

So  there  she  sat,  until  the  door  on  her  left  opened 
and  she  heard  Almond's  voice  saying  good  evening  to 
the  chauffeur,  as  he  opened  a  huge  umbrella,  dedicated 
to  Lady  Fabricius'  passages  from  house-door  to  car  and 
from  car  to  house-door.  Then  she  heard  a  thud  and 
the  well-known  roll  of  red  carpet  bounced  down  the  steps 
to  where  a  new  footman  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  door 
of  the  car.  Cuckoo,  huddled  in  her  place,  strained  her 

269 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ears  to  hear,  and  at  last  came  the  sound  of  voices  and 
the  stiff  tap  of  her  aunt's  little  shoes  on  the  polished 
floor.  Majestic  though  unwieldy,  the  old  lady,  who  was 
fatter  than  ever,  stumped  slowly  down  the  steps,  leaning 
on  the  devoted  arm  of  Almond,  while  Walter  held  the 
umbrella  over  them  as  an  acolyte  in  a  religious  pro- 
cession in  the  South  holds  an  umbrella  over  the  priest. 
Behind  her,  looking  very  small  in  a  new  coat,  holding 
an  umbrella  over  his  silk  hat,  went  Sir  Adolph.  When 
the  two  were  safely  settled  in  their  car,  Cuckoo  leaned 
forward  and  listened,  while  the  butler  told  the  chauffeur 
where  to  take  them,  and  on  hearing  the  direction  she 
gave  a  soft  laugh.  They  were  dining  with  Lord  and 
Lady  Thorsway,  so  perhaps  Bertie's  wounded  heart  had 
healed  and  he  was  going  to  be  a  good  boy  and  marry 
according  to  his  Mamma's  behests.  But  a  moment  later 
the  girl  strained  back  closer  than  ever  in  her  corner, 
for  Bertie  Fabricius  himself  came  up  the  street  towards 
her  on  foot.  She  saw  his  face  distinctly  as  the  door  on 
her  right  opened  and  the  light  fell  on  it.  He  looked 
much  the  same,  but  he  was  in  a  tearing  hurry  and  took 
out  his  watch  with  a  jerk  and  a  muttered  "damn"  as  he 
passed  her. 

When  the  door  had  slammed  behind  him  the  eaves- 
dropper rose  and  walked  on  to  Oxford  Street.  She  went 
into  an  A.B.C. — crowded  at  the  hour,  ill-ventilated,  and 
filled  with  probably  worthy  people  whose  early  education 
in  the  matter  of  table  manners  had  obviously  been  neg- 
lected— and  dined  on  two  excellent  buns  and  a  glass  of 
milk.  How,  she  didn't  know,  any  more  than  years  ago 
she  had  known  that  her  life  at  Roseroofs  would  one  day 
come  to  an  end,  but  she  knew  that  George  and  she  were 
on  the  edge  of  parting.  She  munched  her  bun  and  drank 
her  milk  with  deliberation  that  almost  approached  the 
point  of  comfort.  She  was  not  unhappy  now;  it  seemed 

270 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

to  her  as  if  she  were  rousing  and  stretching  herself  after 
a  bad  dream;  as  if  her  eyes  were  newly  opened  to  the 
realities  of  life  and  to  the  fact  that  one  of  the  realities 
of  life  was  not  that  she  should  go  on  wasting  her  youth, 
and  her  capacity  for  living,  in  Barker  Street  with  George. 

When  Loxley  came  in  that  night,  after  a  long  evening 
in  a  hot,  stuffy  room,  thick  with  various  kinds  of  offen- 
sively cheap  tobacco,  he  found  his  wife  sitting  by  the 
fire  in  the  clothes  in  which  she  had  gone  out.  She  had 
not  changed  her  shoes  and  they  were  steaming  as  she 
held  them  to  the  flame. 

"George,"  she  asked  briskly.  "Do  you  know  where 
that  Professor  Withers  lives  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  indifferently. 

"Of  course  I  do — why?" 

"Because  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said,  "that  it  was 
a  great  mistake  your  not  accepting  his  offer." 

He  frowned  irritably.  "Nonsense.  How  could  I  accept 
his  offer?  Go  off  to  Cyprus  and  leave  you  here " 

He  sat  down,  crossing  his  thin  legs  wearily,  half-hiding 
a  yawn  with  his  hand. 

"I,"  she  went  on,  "am  going  to  Roseroofs  to  stay  with 
my  aunts.  It's  going  to  be  a  fearful  winter  here;  if  you 
stay  you'll  be  ill  and  unfit  for  work,  and  you  know  what 
he  said  about  the  climate  out  there.  I've  been  thinking 
about  it  and  I  want  you  to  write  to  him." 

George  looked  at  her  glumly. 

"Poor  old  Cuckoo,"  he  said.  "Can't  stand  any  more 
of  it,  eh?" 

She  paid  no  attention  to  this  remark  but  went  on : 

"He'll  pay  you  well  for  these  drawings,  and  we  cer- 
tainly can't  go  on  like  this  any  longer.  Aunt  Effie  and 
Aunt  Flora  won't  mind  having  me,  I'm  sure.  What  do  you 
think?" 

271 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  his  hollow  eyes 
regained  a  little  of  their  gentleness  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to  go?"  he  said.  "Not  just 
because  of  my  health — because  I  may  be  quite  well  this 
winter,  you  know," 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  be  quite  well  this  winter.  You've  never  been  well 
any  winter  in  London  yet." 

He  got  up  and  walked  restlessly  about  the  room,  taking 
up  and  putting  down  various  little  objects  without  know- 
ing what  they  were.  At  last  he  came  back  to  her  and 
stood  by  her  chair. 

"Look  here,  Cuckoo,"  he  said.  "You're  quite  right, 
of  course,  to  say  that  this  kind  of  thing  can't  go  on. 
It's  perfectly  miserable.  But  it's  my  fault  as  much  as 
yours,  if  not  more.  My  wretched  nerves  have  not  been 
right  for  ever  so  long,  but — what  do  you  say  to  having 
another  try  ?  Just  sort  of  beginning  over  ?" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  wet  hair,  and  by  a  tremendous 
effort  she  let  it  stay  there.  She  paused  for  a  moment, 
knowing  that  on  her  reply  rested  the  whole  of  her  imme- 
diate future.  At  last  she  wisely  decided  telling  the  truth 
so  far  as  possible. 

"I  don't  see,"  she  said,  "that  there  would  be  a  bit  of 
use  in  trying  to  begin  over  now.  We  are  frightfully  on 
each  other's  nerves ;  neither  of  us  is  well,  and  with  winter 
coming  on  and  so  little  money — honestly,  George,  I  don't 
think  that  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  we'd  stand  a 
chance  of  getting  things  right!" 

He  sighed.  "Perhaps  not.  I've  been  an  awful  failure, 
Cuckoo,  and  I  know  it.  I've  said  some  things  to  you  for 
which  I  ought  to  have  been  killed,  and  the  funny  part  of 
it  is  that  I  never  knew  before  that  I  had  a  temper.  But 
there  are  two  things  that  in  spite  of  everything  are  un- 
changeable, my  wish  to  paint  really  well  and " 

272 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  and  you  will  paint  well  one  day, 
probably  very  soon  in  a  decent  climate  with  no  worries. 
George,  do  go." 

He  went  to  an  untidy  writing-table  in  the  corner  of 
the  room,  switched  on  the  light  over  it,  and,  after  turning 
over  and  searching  through  a  pile  of  papers,  found  the 
letter  and  came  back  with  it. 

"Here's  Withers'  address.  I  suppose  it  could  be 
arranged,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't  like  to  leave  you,  Cuckoo. 
Even  though  things  seem  to  have  got  into  such  a  horrible 
mess.  I  do  love  you,  you  know." 

She  turned  away  from  him,  and  at  the  words  her  face 
contracted  angrily.  After  a  little  pause  the  young  man 
went  on. 

"You'd  be  very  dull  with  the  Aunts  all  winter." 

The  bitter  sarcasm  that  rose  to  her  lips  at  this  she 
suppressed  with  an  effort. 

"It's  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  the  Aunts,"  she 
said.  "I  shall  be  glad  to  be  with  them  for  a  while." 

At  that  minute  George  Loxley  sneezed  several  times 
with  great  violence.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a 
laugh,  which  she  vainly  attempted  to  make  good-tem- 
pered. 

"There  you  are,  you  see.  You'll  sneeze  all  night  and 
you'll  wake  up  with  fever,  and  the  day  after  to-morrow  is 
the  first  of  November " 

A  week  later  George  Loxley  set  out  for  Cyprus  to 
paint  a  series  of  twelve  sketches  of  that  historical  island 
to  illustrate  Professor  Withers'  forthcoming  book.  The 
Professor,  who  in  the  kindness  of  his  heart  went  to  the 
train  to  see  his  young  friend  off,  was  much  touched  by 
the  presence  of  her  whom  he  called  "Lesley's  little  wife." 
There  was  in  her  face  a  look  of  purpose  that  the  kind 
old  man  mistook  for  one  of  fortitude,  and  when  the  last 

273 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

moment  came,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  adieux  of  the 
poor  little  people  whom  he  believed  himself  to  be  brutally 
tearing  from  each  other's  arms. 

"There,  there,  my  dear,"  he  said  kindly,  patting 
Cuckoo's  shoulder,  "he'll  soon  be  back  with  you — in  three 
months ;  you  must  cheer  up — only  three  months  and  he'll 
be  back  with  you.  Just  bear  that  in  mind,  and  you'll  be 
all  right." 

Cuckoo  looked  at  the  infinitesimal  amount  of  face  that 
his  beard  allowed  her  to  see  and  answered  him  with  appro- 
priateness. Then  she  climbed  on  top  of  a  bus,  for  the 
day  was  fine,  and  made  her  way  back  to  Chelsea. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

CUCKOO  LOXLEY  went  to  Wiskedale  as  she 
had  arranged  to  do,  and  she  stayed  there  a  fort- 
night. 

She  had  laid  the  fuse  of  her  plans  and  had  decided 
that  until  the  spark  had  reached  the  explosive  she  could 
afford  to  wait  and  to  rest.  She  was  very  nearly  a  nervous 
wreck  and  she  knew  it,  but  the  dale  air  and  the  quiet 
life  of  Roseroofs  would  heal  her. 

Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  were  delighted  to  have  her 
with  them  again,  and  the  evening  of  her  arrival  they  sat 
in  the  drawing-room  till  after  eleven — a  most  unusual 
thing — listening  to  her  version  of  her  affairs. 

The  immortal  Bowdler  himself  could  not  with  greater 
skill  have  glossed  over  the  acerbities  of  the  matter  of  her 
story  with  greater  skill  than  she  showed. 

George  was  seedy,  she  said,  and  their  large  studio  did 
not  warm  well,  so  she  had  feared  the  winter  for  him,  and 
they  had  jumped  at  the  chance  of  his  going  to  Cyprus 
for  the  dear  old  Professor.  "It's  only  for  three  months, 
you  know,"  she  added  easily,  "and  it's  sure  to  do  him 
good." 

"You  don't  look  well  yourself,  Cuckoo,"  Miss  Effie  re- 
marked in  a  voice  that  sounded  severe,  looking  over  the 
tops  of  her  spectacles. 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "I'm  not.  I'm  as  thin  as  a  kipper, 
George  says — one  cold  after  another  I've  had  ever  since 
early  in  September !  Chelsea  is  lovely,  of  course,  but  it's 
very  low,  you  know,  and  I  don't  think  it  suits  either  of  us 

particularly " 

275 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

The  old  sisters  had  not  changed  much  since  she  had 
seen  them — she  and  George  had  spent  a  fortnight  with 
them  that  first  summer — they  were  growing  older  in  a 
very  satisfactory,  even  manner.  Their  eyes,  and  ears, 
and  hair,  and  skin,  were  marching  steadily  on  towards 
the  enemy  in  a  rhythmic,  dignified  way,  only  Miss  Flora's 
teeth  still  looking  too  young  for  the  rest  of  her. 

They  had,  Cuckoo  noticed,  put  on  their  best  to  do  her 
honor,  and  she  knew  that  up  to  the  last  Christmas  the 
blue  and  brown  silk  gowns  had  adorned  the  body  of  her 
enemy.  Lady  Fab,  she  reflected,  must  now,  considering 
the  different  effects  of  age  on  them,  make  four  of  Miss 
Flora,  who  was  as  thin  as  her  eldest  sister  was  fat. 

Neither  old  lady  mentioned  Lady  Fabricius;  they  had 
been  told  the  story  of  the  quarrel  by  Marcia,  but  luckily 
for  their  peace  of  mind  Marcia  had  always  been  given  to 
exaggeration,  particularly  in  anger,  so  they  had  received 
her  charges  against  Cuckoo  with  a  certain  innocent  mental 
reserve,  especially  as  Cuckoo,  with  wisdom  beyond  her 
years,  had  abstained  from  explanations  and  justifications 
of  any  kind. 

George,  always,  as  they  knew,  a  scrupulously  truthful 
person,  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit  to  the  dale  with  his 
bride,  had  told  the  story  in  his  way,  and  his  words  had 
consoled  Miss  Eflie  and  Miss  Flora  a  great  deal. 

They  never  knew  that  his  version  was  not  to  be  believed 
entirely,  as  Cuckoo  in  her  first  rage  had  been  too  excited, 
too  upset,  to  adhere  strictly  to  the  truth,  and  because  after 
that  first  evening  he  had  avoided  all  reference  to  the 
horrid  scene. 

"Let's  forget  all  about  your  Aunt  Marcia,  darling," 
he  had  said  to  her.  "She  was  a  wicked  old  woman  to 
treat  you  so  abominably,  but  after  all  7  can't  be  expected 
to  bear  her  any  lasting  grudge!"  So  they  had  pretty 
completely  dropped  the  subject,  and  George,  until  long 

276 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

afterwards,  did  not  know  how  much  truth  there  had  been 
in  Lady  Fab's  outrageously  expressed  accusations. 

And  now  Cuckoo  settled  down  in  her  old  room  at  Rose- 
roofs,  and  in  pursuance  of  her  plan  proceeded  to  give  her 
health  and  her  looks  a  chance  to  recover  themselves  before 
she  left  the  dale. 

Miss  Flora  brought  her  bread  and  milk  after  she  was  in 
bed;  Miss  Effie  dosed  her  with  some  tea  made  out  of  a 
bitter  root  and  supposed  to  contain  highly  tonic  qualities, 
and  old  Esther  Oughtenshaw  waited  on  her  hand  and  foot, 
and  made  for  her  all  her  old  pet  dishes. 

It  was  by  chance  a  very  beautiful  autumn,  and  though 
the  only  flowers  left  were  a  few  asters  and  chrysanthe- 
mums, and  a  semi-occasional  hardy  rose-bud,  with  red- 
dened edges  and  a  bitten  aspect,  yet  the  moors  were  still 
haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the  purple  of  the  heather,  the 
grass  in  the  dale  was  green,  and  the  air  only  pleasantly 
sharp. 

Cuckoo  slept  and  ate  well,  and  every  day  she  found  her 
nerves  to  be  better,  her  so  irritable  temper  less  in  a  whirl, 
and  her  morning  and  evening  walks  grew  longer  and 
longer. 

Once  she  and  Aunt  Flora  walked  to  Widdybank  and 
put  some  flowers  on  the  old  Vicar's  grave  under  the  south 
transept  window.  "We  do  so  miss  him,"  Miss  Flora 
told  her,  as  she  rose  from  her  knees ;  "he  was  a  good,  dear 
man." 

Cuckoo  nodded  gravely.  "Yes,  he  was,"  she  agreed, 
quite  forgetting  the  old  man's  speculative  crimes  and  re- 
membering him  only  as  he  had  been  in  her  childhood  and 
young  girlhood.  "How  do  you  like  Mr.  Kane?"  Mr. 
Kane  was  the  new  vicar,  whom  the  visitor  had  not  yet 
seen. 

Miss  Flora  gave  a  little  skip  of  embarrassment,  as  if 
she  were  skipping  away  from  a  distressing  subject.  "Oh, 

277 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

he's  very  nice,"  she  answered.  "Your  Aunt  Effie  says 
his  sermons  are  excellent " 

Cuckoo  looked  at  her  with  grave  eyes  in  which  there  was 
a  secret  glimmer.  "What  does  my  Aunt  Flora  say?"  she 
asked. 

Aunt  Flora  glanced  at  her  with  a  look  almost  of  fear. 
"Oh,  what  I  think  about  new  people,"  she  said,  "never 
amounts  to  much — your  Aunt  EfBe  would  tell  you  how 
unobservant  I  am.  ..." 

"I  know,"  replied  Cuckoo  dryly.  "I've  often  heard  her 
say  it,  and  I've  sometimes  wondered  if  she  was  altogether 
right,"- 

At  this  moment  the  new  vicar  appeared,  and  was  intro- 
duced to  Mrs.  Loxley  by  her  aunt. 

He  was  a  large,  blond  man  with  easily  pursable  lips, 
and  a  long  nose.  He  was  a  married  man,  and  three  of  his 
children  were  with  him. 

When  he  had  expressed  his  gratification  at  meeting 
the  granddaughter-in-law  of  his  greatly  honored  prede- 
cessor, his  delight  in  the  beauty  of  the  dale,  and  his  hope 
of  seeing  the  Roseroofs  ladies  in  church  the  next  day,  he 
went  his  way,  and  Cuckoo  and  Miss  Flora  went 
theirs. 

"So  you  don't  like  him,"  Cuckoo  observed  quietly,  as 
they  reached  the  beck,  "well,  no  more  do  I." 

"Good  gracious,  Cuckoo,  I  never  said  I  didn't  like 
him " 

"Yes,  you  did,  Aunt  Flora,  with  everything  but  your 
tongue.  I  am  a  sharp-witted  Cockney  nowadays,  you 
know."  But  neither  of  them  mentioned  the  matter  to 
Miss  Effie,  and  as  the  days  passed  Cuckoo  was  confirmed 
in  her  new  idea  that  Miss  Flora's  silence  covered  some- 
thing which,  in  the  old  days,  she  had  never  suspected. 

One  afternoon  Cuckoo  walked  up  to  Settle  Farm,  old 
Isaac  Vesper's  place.  She  found  the  old  man  in  a  big 

278 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

chair  by  the  fire  in  the  kitchen,  his  wife  reading  aloud  to 
him  from  a  newspaper. 

"Well,  Agnes,  well,  Mr.  Vosper,  I  thought  I'd  come  up 
and  have  a  look  at  you " 

Agnes,  a  sad-faced  woman  of  six  or  seven  and  twenty, 
flushed  oddly  and  let  her  husband  answer.  He  was  voluble, 
but  not  very  easy  to  understand,  for  he  had  had  his  second 
stroke  a  few  months  before. 

"He  says  he's  very  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Coocoo,"  his 
wife  translated,  but  the  old  man  was  not  satisfied  and  went 
on  mumbling  something  over  and  over  again. 

"You  feel  what?"  Cuckoo  asked,  kindly,  but  hating  the 
sound  he  made  and  the  spluttering. 

He  repeated  the  remark  as  best  he  could,  scowling  at 
his  wife,  who  was  trying  to  quiet  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  understand,  Mr.  Vosper — I've  got  it,  Agnes 
— how  stupid  we  were  not  to  understand  him!  He  says 
he  feels  he  owes  me  a  good  turn.  Because  of  you,  of 
course.  What  a  nice  compliment  to  us  both !" 

The  old  farmer  nodded  and  gurgled  in  his  satisfaction, 
and  while  Cuckoo  talked  to  him  his  wife  went  to  the  window 
and  stood  there  looking  out. 

When  Cuckoo  left,  the  woman  walked  with  her  across 
the  paddock  to  the  gate.  "He's  very  ill,  I  fear,"  Cuckoo 
said,  as  they  went  along. 

"Yes,  Miss  Coocoo.  He's  been  ill  for  fower  year 
now " 

"Oh,  poor  Agnes !" 

Agnes  nodded  her  smooth  brown  head.  "Oo-aye,  poor 
Agnes  indeed,  Miss  Coocoo " 

They  had  reached  the  big  whitewashed  gate  and  stood 
by  it  looking  down  the  road. 

"He  will  not  live  long,  poor  old  man,"  Cuckoo  said 
softly.  "It's  very  sad,  of  course,  but  he  has  had  a  long 

life,  and  then — you  will  be  all  right " 

279 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Isaac  Vesper's  wife  raised  her  brown,  broad  hand  and 
brought  it  down  passionately  on  the  top  bar  of  the  gate. 
"All  right !  An'  my  Chris  married  a  year  ago  last  Christ- 
mas !  Ah,  ye  meant  well,  no  doot,  Miss  Coocoo,  that 
time,"  she  went  on,  broadly  Doric  as  she  proceeded,  "but 
God  knows  it's  maany  a  time  Ah've  wished  you  had  let 
things  bee " 

Cuckoo  went  her  way  deep  in  thought.  Who  was  right  ? 
Rachel  had  married  for  love  and  had  been  unhappy ;  Rosie 
had  married  for  money  and  was  blissful  with  her  awful 
husband ;  and  here  was  Agnes,  married  for  money  and  like 
a  woman  in  an  old  tragedy,  with  her  worn,  wistful 
face. 

It  was  to  be  a  long  time  before  Cuckoo  found  out  the 
true  answer  to  her  question,  but  when  she  did,  very  sud- 
denly and  conclusively,  she  remembered  as  if  a  picture  of 
it  had  been  put  before  her,  the  late  autumn  road  lead- 
ing down  to  the  dale  from  Settle  Farm  and  the  very 
turning  at  which  she  had  asked  herself,  aloud,  "Which 
is  right?" 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  Cuckoo,  coming  down  to  break- 
fast a  little  late,  found  on  her  plate  two  letters  with  for- 
eign stamps. 

"This  is  from  George,"  she  said,  cordially,  as  she  opened 
it.  George  wrote  from  Athens,  where  he  was  staying 
for  a  few  days  with  a  Greek  friend  of  Professor  Withers. 
"He's  very  well,  and  adores  Athens,"  she  announced,  after 
a  moment.  "He  sends  his  love  to  you  both — he's  sending 
me  some  photographs  of  Athens.  Wasn't  it  nice  of  Pro- 
fessor Withers,"  she  added,  with  a  little  burst  of,  to  her, 
unusual  enthusiasm,  "to  have  him  stop  over  in  Athens, 
instead  of  going  straight  to  Cyprus  ?" 

Miss  Flora's  large  eyes,  that  seemed  to  have  grown  more 
globular  and  even  more  limpid  with  the  years,  rested  for 

280 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  second  on  her  niece's  face,  as  Miss  Effie  answered  that  it 
undoubtedly  was  kind  of  the  Professor. 

"What  is  the  book  that  George  is  illustrating?"  Miss 
Flora  asked,  after  a  pause,  while  Cuckoo  finished  her 
letter. 

"On  the  ancient  civilization  of  Cyprus.  He  has  all  the 
dull,  technical  pictures  of  buildings,  and  so  on,  but  he 
wants  reproductions  in  color  of  the  scenery,  so  of  course 
George  will  be  blissful " 

The  old  ladies  went  on  with  their  breakfasts,  and 
Cuckoo  looked  at  them,  swept  over  by  an  intense,  sudden 
wave  of  entirely  uncalled-for  pity.  How  many  breakfasts 
had  they  eaten  in  that  shabby,  pleasant  room?  After  a 
moment's  calculation  that  it  must  be,  she  decided,  for 
say  five  years  spent  away  from  home,  something  like 
twenty-three  thousand.  Three-and-twenty  thousand  eggs, 
usually  boiled ;  six-and-forty  thousand  cups  of  tea  apiece ! 
It  was  an  appalling  thought  to  the  girl,  for  what  her 
father  had  called  her  "roving  drop"  had  for  the  time  being 
taken  command  of  her,  and  the  horror  of  what  he  had 
named  one-placeness  was  strong  on  her.  As  to  her,  she 
was  going  to  Paris ! 

Her  plan  had  grown  successfully,  and  the  letter  she  had 
just  read  and  laid  down  beside  her  cup  was  its  flowering. 
Its  fruit  would  be  Paris. 

The  year  before  the  return  to  England  of  Bertie 
Fabricius,  Cuckoo  had  gone  to  Cowes  with  Lady  Pelter 
and  there  she  had  met,  amongst  Lady  Pelter's  gay  friends, 
one  Countess  Lensky,  an  American  married,  or  formerly 
married,  to  a  Pole.  This  Countess  Lensky  was  enormously 
rich,  enormously  vital,  and,  some  people  said,  as  enor- 
mously common.  A  very  large  woman,  corseted  in  a  way 
that  struck  admiration  to  the  souls  of  some  of  her  be- 
holders and  terror  to  the  souls  of  others,  she  was  gay, 
noisy,  good-tempered,  indefatigable  in  the  pursuit  of 

281 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

pleasure ;  and  it  must  be  added  that  she  invariably  came 
up  with  this  elusive  quarry.  She  made  a  solid  success  at 
the  regatta,  despite  the  obvious  things  that  might  have 
been,  and  were,  said  against  her. 

Her  yacht,  the  Tiger  Lily,  flowed,  so  to  speak,  with 
milk  and  honey;  she  was  generosity  itself  as  well  as  hos- 
pitable, and  at  the  end  of  the  great  week  Lady  Pelter  and 
Cuckoo  went  for  a  short  cruise  with  her. 

"I  like  you  the  best  of  the  lot,  my  dear,"  she  had  once 
said  to  Cuckoo ;  "you  aren't  so  mean  as  most  of  the 
women,  and  you've  got  a  temper.  I  haven't  any  use  for 
those  swell  English  women  who  couldn't  get  real  mad  if 
they  tried " 

For  some  time  after  they  separated,  Cuckoo  and  this 
lady  had  kept  up  a  desultory  correspondence,  but  they 
had  never  met  again,  for  the  Countess  had  already  tried 
London,  and,  as  she  frankly  declared,  couldn't  stand  it. 

"Parrus  for  me,"  she  would  say,  "and  any  of  you  w^ho 
want  to  see  me  must  come  and  see  me  in  my  little  wooden 
hut  there " 

Her  little  wooden  hut  was  a  huge  flat  in  the  Champs- 
Elysees,  and  to  this  sylvan  spot  Cuckoo  had  sent  the 
letter,  the  answer  to  which  arrived  the  morning  of  George's 
first  communication  from  Greece.  The  Countess  wrote, 
in  a  very  large,  very  spidery  hand,  each  word  of  which 
had  a  dashing  little  tail : 

MY  DEAR, 

I  was  glad  4o  hear  from  you  after  all  this  time.  I  did  get  your 
letter  about  your  engagement,  but  I  lost  it  somehow,  and  then  I 
went  to  America  where  my  brother  was  married — Edwin,  you 
know,  the  one  I  used  to  want  you  to  meet.  He  married  such  a 
sweet  girl.  ...  Of  course  I  shall  just  love  to  have  you  visit  me 
while  your  husband  is  away.  It  will  do  you  good  to  be  a  bache- 
lor for  awhile.  I  always  say  it  does  a  woman  just  as  much 
good  to  be  separated  from  her  husband,  as  it  does  a  man  to  be 

282 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

away  from  his  wife  for  awhile.  I  just  love  men,  of  course, 
but  husbands  get  sort  of  troublesome,  don't  they?  .  .  .  Well, 
come  just  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  I  promise  you  a  warm  wel- 
come and  a  nice  warm  bedroom.  I've  got  a  new  cook,  and,  I 
tell  you  as  shouldn't,  he's  a  real  daisy.  .  .  .  My  love  to  you, 
honey.  Send  me  a  wire  when  you  are  coming. 
Yours  ever, 

MARGUERITE  LENSKY. 


The  Aunts  were  much  interested  in  Cuckoo's  prospective 
visit  to  Paris.  Aunt  Flora  insisted  on  lending  her  two 
of  the  quaint  old  rings  that  on  great  occasions  adorned 
her  own  old  fingers,  and  Aunt  Effie,  as  the  family  linguist, 
regretted  that  Cuckoo's  French  was  not  better. 

When  she  had  left  them  standing  at  the  gate  in  the  pale 
November  sunlight,  the  girl  felt  a  little  pang,  not  quite  of 
love,  not  quite  of  pity,  for  them.  They  had  always  been 
kind  to  her,  and  they  were  old  and  she  was  young.  She 
possessed  the  great  quality  of  living  in  the  beginnings  of 
things ;  during  her  last  weeks  with  George  she  had  for  the 
first  time  felt  herself  at  an  end,  but  her  nature  was  to  dwell 
in  a  land  of  beginnings.  Hers  was  the  tough  vitality  of 
mind  that  trouble  cannot  break,  and  even  boredom  can  but 
temporarily  bend. 

The  mystery  and  glamor  of  "just  round  the  corner" 
would  never  leave  her,  and  therefore  she  would  never  really 
grow  old.  Vaguely  she  knew  this,  and  from  it  sprang 
her  queer  mood  of  sympathy  for  the  two  stay-at-home  old 
ladies. 

Her  own  affairs  were  far  too  engrossing,  however,  for 
her  to  waste  much  time  thinking  about  her  aunts,  and  her 
journey  to  London  seemed  but  an  hour,  so  busy  was  she 
with  the  glowing  future. 

On  arriving  at  King's  Cross  she  took  a  cab  to  a  small 
hotel  in  Bloomsbury,  and  the  next  morning  a  young  man 
in  a  jeweler's  shop  in  Oxford  Street  came  to  meet  her 

283 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

as  with  an  assured  mien  she  entered  his  multi-millionaire 
master's  famous  premises. 

"What  can  I  show  you,  madam?"  the  young  man 
asked. 

Cuckoo  smiled.  "Nothing,  thanks,"  sHe  answered 
tranquilly.  "It  is  I  who  have  something  to  show 
you " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CUCKOO'S  first  impression  of  Paris,  during  her 
drive  from  the  Gare  du  Nord  to  the  Place  de 
1'Opera  and  thence  up  the  Champs-Elysees,  was  one 
not  of  the  streets  but  of  the  indescribable,  mechanical 
gaiety  of  its  lights.  Against  the  overhead  blackness  of 
the  November  night  flashed  and  glowed  and  burned  in 
all  directions,  words  and  symbols  in  all  colors  and  of  all 
degrees  of  stability.  Red  globes  forming  letters  changed 
to  blue  squares,  and  then  to  triangles  of  emerald.  A  huge 
golden  bottle  hung  apparently  from  the  sky  for  several 
seconds,  and  then  melted  into  the  surrounding  darkness, 
replaced  by  the  word,  in  crimson,  "Vinofer." 

Cuckoo  was  tired,  but  though  this  chaos  of  brilliancy 
wearied  her  eyes,  its  effect  on  her  mind  was  one  of  ex- 
citement and  stimulation.  She  sat  well  forward  in  her 
rickety  little  fiacre  gazing  up,  drinking  in  the  subtle  ex- 
citement of  the  Parisian  night.  She  had  forgotten 
George ;  she  had  forgotten  Roseroofs ;  she  had,  in  a  way, 
forgotten  herself.  She  was  not  Cuckoo  Loxley,  the  em- 
bittered wife  of  a  poor  man,  going  away  for  a  stolen 
holiday;  she  was  just  any  girl  arriving  in  Paris  for  a 
delightful  visit  and  full  of  the  intensity  of  anticipation 
possible  only  to  a  creature  capable  of  the  greatest  heights 
and  the  greatest  depths  of  temperamental  fluctuations. 
She  was  thrilled  to  the  marrow  by  the  Rue  de  la  Paix, 
and  did  it  the  honor  of  forgetting,  in  her  contemplation 
of  its  close-shuttered  shops,  the  intoxicating  heaven  of 
whimsical  lights  that  had  so  enthralled  her.  At  the  sight 

285 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  Napoleon  standing  on  his  pillar  in  the  Place  Vendome, 
she  gave  a  little  laugh.  She,  Cuckoo  Blundell,  was  actu- 
ally there  in  the  Place  Vendome,  and  that  big  white  build- 
ing with  its  blazing  lights  and  its  never  quiet  swing-door 
must,  she  knew,  be  the  new  hotel  at  which  Rosie  Brinkley 
had  stayed  on  her  last  visit  to  Paris.  At  last  her  fiacre 
drew  up  at  a  great  door  in  the  Champs-Elysees  and  a 
uniformed  personage  came  out  and  possessed  himself  of 
her  luggage. 

"I  had  better  settle  with  the  driver  myself,"  the  func- 
tionary said.  "They  are  all  thieves  and  pirates."  He 
was,  Cuckoo  saw,  an  Irishman,  and  this  trifling  fact  added 
new  pleasure  to  the  other  pleasures  which  were  crowding 
round  her  for  recognition. 

The  stairs  that  mounted  round  the  little  lift  were,  she 
saw,  of  white  marble,  and  a  very  thick  red  carpet  was 
laid  on  them.  The  lift,  though  highly  gilded  and  ornate 
in  design,  seemed  like  a  toy  in  the  big,  imposing  hall. 

The  Countess  Lensky  lived  on  the  second  floor  of  the 
house,  and  the  huge  mahogany  door  was  opened  at 
Cuckoo's  ring  by  the  grandest  butler  she  had  ever  seen 
in  her  life.  While  she  was  struggling  to  answer  a  ques- 
tion he  put  to  her  in  French,  a  tall  girl  with  a  waist  of 
enviable  slimness  and  a  very  coquettish  muslin  apron, 
came  up  the  long  passage  that  led  from  the  square  hall, 
parallel  with  the  street,  and  told  Cuckoo  that  Madame 
la  Comtesse  wished  her  to  come  to  her  dressing-room. 

The  Countess  was  delighted  to  see  Cuckoo  and  kissed 
her  several  times  in  French  fashion,  pecking  unsuccess- 
fully at  her  ears.  Then  she  made  the  girl  sit  down  in  an 
extremely  comfortable  easy  chair  and  turned  to  the  maid 
saying  something  in  French. 

"Did  you  bring  your  luggage  with  you?"  she  broke  off 
to  ask,  and  Cuckoo  said  "Yes." 

"Good.  Give  the  keys  to  Josephine  and  she'll  unpack 

286 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

for  you.  We  dine  at  half-past  eight  at  the  'Ritz'  with 
some  Argentines,  and  shall  be  going  on  somewhere,  so 
make  yourself  smart.  You  do  look  well,  my  dear.  Mar- 
riage has  improved  you,  as  it  does  every  woman,  just  at 
first." 

The  Countess's  hair  had  taken  on  a  new  color  since 
Cuckoo  had  seen  her  and  was  worn  in  an  entirely  new 
way,  but  the  kind,  common  face,  though  a  little  more 
flaccid  and  a  little  redder  than  Cuckoo  remembered  it,  was 
not  much  changed.  She  looked  as  gay,  as  indifferent  to 
the  deeper  things  of  life,  as  ever. 

"I'm  going  to  wear  pink,"  she  said,  "so  for  goodness' 
sake  don't  you ;  pinks  do  swear  so  at  each  other." 

"I  shall  wear  black,"  Cuckoo  announced  indifferently. 
"I  usually  do." 

The  Countess,  holding  her  chin  up  and  speaking  indis- 
tinctly as  she  rubbed  some  thick  white  liquid  over  her 
neck  with  a  piece  of  cotton  wool,  went  on  talking. 

"Awfully  sorry  I  couldn't  send  a  car  to  meet  you,  but 
my  chauffeur's  wife  had  a  baby  this  afternoon  and  I  had 
to  let  him  go  home  and  see  her,  and  the  second  man  is 
new  and  I  daren't  trust  him  with  my  new  car.  The  new 
car  is  a  beauty,  by  the  way,  Nicky.  It  has  such  a  nice 
lining  and  all  the  fittings  are  blue  enamel.  I'm  sure  you'll 
like  it.  Now  you'd  better  run  along,  dear.  Josephine  will 
have  drawn  your  bath.  You  didn't  bring  a  maid,  did 
you?" 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "Good  gracious,  no.  I'm  far  too 
hard  up  for  a  maid." 

She  didn't  look  in  the  least  hard  up  as  she  stood  there 
in  her  very  well  made,  dark  blue  coat  and  skirt  and  a 
very  severe,  very  expensive  little  hat.  Her  boots,  too, 
were  the  best  London  could  provide,  and  her  handbag 
was  a  masterpiece  from  Bond  Street. 

"Hurry  up,  then,"  the  Countess  called  out,  as  a  maid 

287 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

answered  her  ring    and  Cuckoo  prepared  to  follow  her. 

"I'll  come  along  to  your  room  as  soon  as  I'm  ready, 
and  if  you  want  Josephine,  ring  for  her.  You're  to  make 
yourself  perfectly  at  home,  you  know.  I'm  an  awfully 
bad  hostess,  because  I  always  forget  to  ask  people  what 
they  want,  but  it's  so  much  easier  if  they'll  just  help 
themselves." 

Cuckoo  walked  what  seemed  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
idown  the  crimson-carpeted  corridor,  and  presently  found 
herself  alone  in  her  room.  It  was  a  very  ornate,  extremely 
comfortable  room  opening  off  a  small  salon,  and  flanked 
on  the  other  side  by  a  bathroom  composed  entirely  of 
glossy  pink  tiles.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  white  enamel 
and  pink  brocade  and  gilding  about  the  little  suite,  yet 
Cuckoo,  whose  eye  was  trained  not  only  by  the  exquisite 
fineness  of  Sir  Adolph's  taste,  but  also  by  the  simplicity 
and  fine  atmosphere  of  Roseroofs,  decided,  as  she  looked 
round  her  in  making  ready  for  her  bath,  that  everything 
was  perfection.  Oh,  the  difference  between  this  and  that 
awful  place  in  Barker  Street ! 

Despite  her  declaration  that  she  was  a  bad  hostess,  the 
Countess  Lensky's  hospitality  had  indeed  foreseen  almost 
every  need  any  guest  could  have.  Cuckoo  had  never  seen 
so  many  towels  in  her  life,  nor  towels  of  so  many  different 
textures ;  and  on  the  glass  shelves,  and  table,  and  the  huge 
marble  washing-stand  in  her  dressing-room,  she  found 
toilet  accessories  of  an  ingenuity  and  luxury  that  put 
anything  she  had  hitherto  seen  to  shame.  There  were 
big  glass  jars  of  different  colored  bath  salts;  there  was 
a  huge  bottle  of  Russian  eau-de-cologne  and  another  of 
lavender  water ;  there  was  a  powder-box  as  big  as  a  wash- 
basin, full  of  powder  that  smelt  gloriously  of  orris ;  there 
was  a  porcelain  box  full  of  fragrant  cold  cream,  and 
another  with  gelee  de  miel,  and  there  was  another,  a 
barrel-shaped  box  full  of  a  grayish,  glutinous  mass  that 

288 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  remembered  as  being  the  Countess's  own  favorite 
oatmeal  and  glycerine  for  the  hands. 

Cuckoo  took  her  bath  singing  under  her  breath,  and 
before  she  was  quite  dressed  the  Countess  came  in. 
Cuckoo  had  half  expected  some  exclamation  of  admira- 
tion of  her  dressing-table  silver;  for  this,  severely  plain, 
was  the  best  of  its  kind  and  fresh  from  Regent  Street. 
But  no  remarks  were  made,  and  the  girl  realized  with  a 
little  gibe  at  herself  that  grand  as  these  objects  seemed 
to  her,  they  naturally  looked  very  simple — almost  humble 
— to  her  hostess. 

"That's  right,"  the  Countess  exclaimed,  as  the  skilful 
Josephine  fastened  her  guest's  frock.  "Who  made  it?" 

Cuckoo  named  one  of  the  biggest  houses  in  London; 
and  she  spoke  the  truth. 

The  Countess,  resplendent  in  shell-pink  brocade,  and 
wearing  three  large  ropes  of  pearls,  as  well  as  very  long 
diamond  ear-rings  and  a  diamond  fillet  in  her  hair,  looked 
very  well  in  her  way,  although  her  lips  were  far  too  red 
and  her  cheeks  too  heavily  powdered. 

"Come  along,  we  mustn't  be  late.  Juan  Martinez  is 
giving  the  dinner,  and  a  cousin  of  his,  Vicente  Ojeda,  who 
is  the  richest  man  in  the  Argentine!  They  are  sure  to 
have  Mimi  Galgenstein,  Juan  is  rather  taken  with  her, 
and  I  suppose  they'll  have  Olivier  Ledru.  He's  a  delight- 
ful creature,  dances  like  an  angel ;  one  of  the  nicest  men  in 
Paris." 

The  two  ladies  hurried  downstairs,  there  scarcely  being 
room  in  the  lift  for  Cuckoo,  and  then  glided  away  in 
the  big  car  that  put  Aunt  Marcia's,  the  one  Cuckoo  had 
loved  because  it  was  as  big  as  some  people's  drawing- 
rooms,  into  the  limbo  of  old-fashioned  things.  Cuckoo, 
according  to  the  plans  that  she  had  made  for  herself 
during^  her  stay  in  Paris,  maintained  a  pleasant  but  nil 
admirare  attitude,  and  no  one  would  have  thought  as 

289 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

she  walked  up  the  long  corridor  at  the  Ritz  behind  her 
effulgent  friend,  that  she  had  never  set  foot  in  the  place 
before.  The  two  Spaniards  and  the  Baroness  Galgenstein 
were  waiting  for  them  near  the  dining-room  door  at  a 
table  on  which  stood  a  tray  containing  six  glasses  filled 
with  an  amber  liquid  in  which  floated  a  preserved  cherry. 
Cuckoo  laughed. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "I  haven't  tasted  a  cocktail  since 
I  left  the  dear  old  Tiger  Lily!" 

The  restaurant  was  crowded  with  people  of  all  nation- 
alities, and  the  hum  of  voices  in  the  warm-scented  air,  and 
the  blaze  of  lights,  and  the  beautifully  dressed  women, 
filled  Cuckoo  with  an  excitement  and  exaltation  that  she 
could  hardly  hide.  Oh,  it  was  good  to  be  there — not  in 
Barker  Street ! 

The  Baroness  Galgenstein,  a  tall,  handsome,  dark 
woman  of  fairly  remote  Jewish  extraction,  was  given  the 
place  of  honor  at  the  little  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

At  first  the  words  spoken  round  her  confused  and  dulled 
Cuckoo's  ear.  Since  her  childhood  she  had  not  heard  the 
French  of  French  people,  and  besides  this  she  had  to  con- 
tend orally  with  Spanish  French,  and  French  Spanish, 
German  French  and  German  Spanish,  Spanish  English, 
and  English  Spanish,  with  American  French  and  American 
Spanish,  and  American  German.  Behind  her  two  Italians 
were  talking  volubly,  and  an  enormously  tall,  bearded 
man,  who,  she  learned,  was  a  Russian  Grand  Duke,  was 
speaking  Russian  to  the  Oriental-looking  woman  dining 
with  him.  The  room  reeked  of  scents,  and  there  were 
enough  pearls  within  its  four  walls  to  have  paid  for  an 
army  campaign  a  few  centuries  before. 

Olivier  Ledru,  who  really  was,  in  his  way,  one  of  the 
best  known  men  about  Paris,  was  a  small,  pale  man,  with 
a  waist  and  just  a  suspicion  of  an  "Imperial."  Cuckoo, 
who  sat  between  him  and  Ojeda,  was  rather  silent  through 

290 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

sheer  force  of  enjoyment;  the  scents,  and  luxury,  and 
leisure,  and  irresistible  happiness,  seemed  to  be  soaking 
in  through  the  very  pores  of  her  skin.  She  was  in  a 
bath  of  well-being.  Ojeda,  who  was  considerably  younger 
than  Martinez,  and  a  very  handsome  boy  on  a  diminutive 
scale,  paid  little  attention  to  his  younger  neighbor,  his 
mission  in  life,  for  the  time,  being  very  obviously  that  of 
offering  incense  at  the  Countess's  shrine.  Cuckoo  noticed, 
as  she  looked  round  the  room,  that  in  all  the  parties  this 
curious  sub-division  was  apparent.  Every  woman,  or 
almost  every  woman,  seemed  to  have  her  own  special 
cavalier,  and  the  worshipping  attitude  of  these  gentlemen 
was  more  apparent  than  the  worshipping  attitude,  no  mat- 
ter how  great  the  inner  adoration  might  be,  could  ever 
have  been  in  any  but  a  really  cosmopolitan  gathering. 
There  was  an  air  of  unreality  about  the  whole  thing; 
nobody  was  at  home,  everybody  seemed  to  be,  as  Cuckoo 
mentally  put  it,  out  for  a  lark.  If  a  huge  idol  plainly 
marked  "Amusement"  had  stood  at  one  end  of  the  room, 
the  object  of  the  worship  of  these  people  could  not  have 
been  more  clearly  divined. 

Theirs  was  a  merry  party,  for  the  handsome  Baroness 
Galgenstein  was  a  clever  woman  and  talked  well,  while 
Ledru  was  deservedly  famous  for  the  amusing  quality  of 
his  flippant  conversation.  The  Countess,  leaning  across 
Ojeda,  who  sat  on  her  left,  gave  Cuckoo  from  time  to 
time,  in  a  perfectly  audible  voice,  bits  of  information  about 
the  people  at  the  surrounding  tables. 

"That  thin  girl  with  the  Grand  Duke,"  she  said,  "is 
Tamar,  the  Russian  dancer,  and  the  bald  old  man  with 
the  yellow  carnation  in  his  coat  is  G.  M.  Taylor." 

"Who's  G.  M.  Taylor?"  Cuckoo  asked. 

"Good  gracious,  my  dear !  President  of  the  Soft  Soap 
Trust — richest  man  in  the  world." 

Cuckoo's  indifference  gave  way  to  a  look  of  eager  inter- 

291 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

est,  and  she  gazed  at  the  plain  old  gentleman  with  the 
yellow  carnation  so  fixedly  that  presently  he  saw  her  and 
smiled;  whereupon  she  turned  away  angrily.  As  the  din- 
ner went  on  most  of  the  parties  became  noisier,  and  the 
Countess  expressed  her  disapproval  of  her  young  guest's 
comparative  silence. 

"Cheer  up,  Nicky,"  she  called.  "You're  boring  those 
two  dear  men  to  death.  You  didn't  use  to  be  so  silent." 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "You  forget  that  I  lead  a  very  quiet 
life  as  a  rule,"  she  said,  "and  this  quite  confuses  me." 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her  odd  dreamlike  mood  she 
looked  up  and  saw  in  a  glass  in  front  of  her  a  man's  face. 
She  set  down  her  champagne  glass  with  a  little  jar.  Who 
could  it  be?  The  man's  eyes  held  hers,  and  it  was  quite 
plain  he  was  asking  the  same  question.  They  had  met 
before,  but  where  or  when  she  could  not  remember. 

Ojeda  had  drawn  nearer  the  Countess,  the  Baroness 
was  busily  engaged  with  Martinez.  Cuckoo  looked  at 
Ledru. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  she  said,  "who  that  man  is?  He 
must  be  sitting  almost  behind  you,  at  least  over  your 
right  shoulder.  He's  alone  at  a  table.  I  can  just  see 
his  face  in  the  glass." 

"Who— the  Japanese?" 

"No,  no.  An  old  man,  he  looks — I  shouldn't  think  he 
was  English." 

Ledru  put  up  his  eyeglass  and  turned  it  round. 

"Oh,  that!"  he  said,  "that's  a  man  we  call  the  Mag- 
nificent. I  believe  he's  partly  Italian,  and  someone  nick- 
named him  II  Magnifico.  He  seems  to  know  you,  by  the 
way " 

Cuckoo  laughed.     "No,  but  I've  seen  him  somewhere." 

At  that  moment  she  saw  in  the  glass  that  the  man  in 
question  had  risen  and  was  coming  towards  them.  He 
threaded  his  way  among  the  little  tables,  walking,  despite 

292 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

his  very  broad  shoulders  and  his  six  feet  of  height,  with 
singular  delicacy,  as  if  his  feet  were  small  and  of  fine 
muscle.  He  went  straight  to  the  Countess,  who  was  flirt- 
ing with  Ojeda,  and  spoke  her  name. 

With  a  little  shriek  of  joy  she  recognized  him  and  held 
out  her  jewel-covered  hand. 

"You,  Magmfico!  How  perfectly  delightful.  Mire 
listed  Martinez,"  she  cried,  "look,  Martinez,  here's  II 
Magnifico." 

Martinez  turned  and  shook  hands  with  the  newcomer. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  Cairo,"  he  said. 

"I  was,"  the  stranger  answered  in  a  deep,  pleasant 
voice,  his  white  teeth  shining.  "I've  been  back  about  a 
week.  Baronin"  he  added,  bowing  over  the  Baroness's 
hand,  which,  Cuckoo  noticed,  he  kissed,  "Wie  geht  es 
Ihnen?" 

When  Martinez  had  persuaded  him  to  join  their  party 
and  he  had  shaken  hands  with  Ledru,  the  Countess, 
leaning  across  the  table,  introduced  him  to  Cuckoo,  and 
he  sat  down  between  her  and  Ojeda,  who  drew  up  close 
to  the  Countess. 

He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  with  a  well-cut,  dark 
face,  and  really  magnificent  eyes,  eyes  of  the  very  rare 
golden  brown  that  is  so  indescribably  beguiling.  He  was 
heavily  built  and  looked  to  be  of  great  strength,  although 
he  was  close  on  sixty.  His  hair,  almost  snow-white,  was 
of  the  crisp  kind  that  would  have  curled  had  he  not  worn 
it  close  cropped.  About  his  finely  modeled  mouth  there 
was  an  ironical  expression  that  was  utterly  and  delight- 
fully belied  by  the  sweetness  of  his  smile.  Cuckoo  had 
remembered  him  the  moment  he  approached  the  table.  He 
was  the  man  she  had  seen  in  the  motor-car  on  the  Embank- 
ment the  day  of  Rosamund  Brinkley's  visit. 

"It  was  a  wet  night,  wasn't  it?"  he  asked. 

"It  was,"  she  returned. 

293 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

It  seemed  to  Cuckoo  his  appearance,  and  his  sitting 
there  by  her,  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  as 
if  for  a  very  long  time  she  had  known  he  was  coming — 
expected  it.  Suddenly  all  her  absent-mindedness,  her 
silence,  what  had  seemed  her  dullness,  dropped  from  her 
like  some  disguising  garment  for  which  she  had  no  more 
need.  Ledru  stared  at  her ;  it  was  quite  plain  to  him  that 
the  woman  he  had  thought  simply  dull  and  boring  must 
have  been,  herself,  bored  by  him  and  Ojeda.  She  was 
better  than  pretty  now,  as  she  chattered  to  the  Mag- 
nificent, and  her  queer  eyes,  like  the  eyes  of  a  little  boar, 
he  thought,  were  blazing  with  interest  and  excitement. 

He  and  Martinez,  chancing  to  catch  each  other's  eye, 
exchanged  a  significant  glance  on  the  subject  of  Cuckoo 
and  the  white-haired  man.  It  was  as  if  they  had  said, 
"Here's  another  of  them."  The  Countess,  speaking  in 
what  she  considered  an  undertone,  remarked  to  the 
Baroness  and  Martinez  "that  there  was  life  in  the  old 
dog  yet." 

"Of  course  he's  perfectly  incorrigible,  the  old  sinner, 
isn't  he?"  the  Baroness  laughed.  She  was  one  of  the 
myriad  women  who  had  loved  Peregrine  Janeways,  and 
yet  she  had,  after  his  inevitable  flitting,  gone  on  being 
friends  with  him  in  the  way  that  women  do ;  as  they  did 
long  ago  with  the  inimitable  and  ever-to-be-lamented 
Casanova. 

"II  est  delicieux"  she  murmured,  "toujours  beau  et 
toujours  irresistible,  ce  cTier  Magnifique!" 

At  about  half-past  ten  the  party  adjourned  to  Mont- 
martre,  and  sat  until  about  two  in  the  cabaret  that  was 
for  the  moment  the  most  fashionably  improper  of  all. 

Cuckoo  was  not  particularly  interested  in  the  scores  of 
beautifully  dressed  cocottes,  with  their  odd,  tragic  resem- 
blance to  each  other,  and  the  bad  air  and  metallic  gaiety 
of  the  place  did  not  much  amuse  her,  but  Sir  Peregrine 

294 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Janeways  did.  He  had  a  remarkable  and  romantic  blend 
of  the  desperado  and  the  courtier  in  his  manners.  He 
was  a  man  of  immense  personal  dignity  and  an  impeccable 
knowledge  of  the  world.  He  made  no  pretense  at  youth, 
and  in  his  magnificent  health  and  boundless  love  of  life 
and  humanity  he  seemed  to  turn  the  worn-out 
pleasure-seekers  round  him  into  ancient  and  decrepit 
beings. 

His  hands,  too,  brown,  slim  and  muscular,  might  have 
been  the  hands  of  a  young  man  in  his  twenties.  Cuckoo 
knew  that  he  had  been  called  "the  last  of  the  dandies," 
and  that  jokes  were  made  about  his  having  been  a  crony 
of  the  Regent's,  but  she  found  in  him  a  quality  she  had 
hitherto  never  met  and  to  which  she  could  give  no  name. 
During  her  first  two  years  in  London  he  had  been,  she 
knew,  in  India  and  China,  which  explained  her  never 
having  seen  him.  Once  she  was  about  to  tell  him  that 
she  was  Robert  Blundell's  daughter  and  that  he  still  owed 
her  a  pony,  promised  her  at  the  age  of  four,  but  some 
unanalysed  feeling  came  to  her  like  a  warning  that  it 
would  be  better  that  he  should  not  know  who  she  was,  so 
she  said  nothing.  He  was  a  man  of  great  courtesy  and 
great  urbanity,  and  besides  devoting  himself  almost  ex- 
clusively to  her  for  the  whole  evening,  he  had  a  few  words 
quiet  talk  with  Mimi  Galgenstein  and  what  the  Countess 
called  a  long  "pow-wow"  with  her,  during  which  she 
chaffed  him  unmercifully  and  a  little  vulgarly  about  some 
of  his  adventures.  But  Cuckoo,  as  he  shook  hands  with 
the  Countess  and  her  at  the  door  of  the  Countess's 
appartement,  felt  that  in  essentials  the  last  six  hours  had 
been  exclusively  hers,  and  in  this  she  was  right. 

"You've  done  the  trick,  dear,"  the  Countess  said 
sleepily,  between  the  yawns,  as  they  sat  in  her  morning- 
room  drinking  camomile  tea  before  going  to  bed.  "fife's 
crazy  about  you." 

295 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "I  suppose  you  mean  Sir  Peregrine, 
as  I  so  obviously  bored  the  other  two  to  sobs." 

"I  do  mean  him.  Dear  old  Magnified  Oh,  Nicky,  I 
was  so  gone  on  him  once.  I  wish  it  hadn't  all  happened 
when  you  were  crawling  on  the  nursery  floor.  He  never 
cared  a  button  about  me  really,  you  know,  but  oh,  what 
a  darling  he  was !  He  was  so  good-looking !  That  was 
in  the  Duchess  of  Galway's  day,  but  he  was  awfully  kind 
to  me.  I  have  still  got  a  purple  ribbon  that  was  round 
a  bunch  of  violets  he  once  sent  me." 

"Well,  I  wish  he'd  send  me  some  violets,"  said  Cuckoo, 
rising.  "Perhaps  he  will,  if  I'm  good." 

Countess  Lensky  kissed  her. 

"Good-night,  Nicky  dear." 

"Good-night,  Countess." 

The  elder  woman  laughed  merrily. 

"Good  gracious!  You  mustn't  go  on  calling  me 
'Countess.'  In  those  days  I  was  Blanche  Pelter's  friend 
and  you  were  a  child,  but  now  I'm  your  friend,  so  you  must 
call  me  Marguerite." 

Cuckoo  responded  prettily. 

"With  pleasure,"  she  said.  "Thanks  so  much  for  a 
delightful  evening,  and  good-night — Marguerite." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

FOR  a  week  Cuckoo  lived  in  an  unbroken  whirl  of 
gaiety,  perfectly  innocent  in  itself  but  strangely 
deadening  in  its  cumulative  effect;  she  ate  too 
much,  smoked  too  much,  even  in  a  way  drank  too  much. 
She  never  got  to  bed  before  three  or  four  in  the  morning 
and  learnt  without  effort  to  sleep  until  eleven  or  twelve. 

Day  after  day  she  lunched  and  dined  in  a  crowd  of 
people  who  with  curious  rapidity  had  advanced  to  the 
rank  of  what  they  called  friends. 

The  Baroness  Galgenstein,  now  called  Mimi,  was  one 
of  these;  Annina  Lerminoff,  a  small,  bloodless  Russian, 
was  another;  Queenie  Vaux,  who  since  the  Warrenden 
divorce  case  found  Paris  better  for  her  health  than  Lon- 
don, another. 

Of  these,  and  others  like  them,  was  the  Comtesse 
Lensky's  social  world  composed,  but  one  thing  could  be 
said  of  her  friends  that  could  not  be  said  of  other  similar 
coteries:  the  women,  most  of  them  a  little  vulgar  or  a 
little  flawed  morally,  were  at  least  all  of  them  women  with 
brains. 

The  Baroness  Galgenstein  played  the  piano  as  well  as 
many  professional  musicians,  and  in  the  side  of  her  life 
of  which  the  Countess  saw  nothing — for  the  reason  that 
it  would  only  have  bored  her — there  was  work,  and 
thought,  and  serious  criticism,  and  earnest,  conscientious 
artist  friends. 

The  little  Russian  was  a  distinguished  student  of  the 
literature  of  her  own  country  and  came  to  la  Lensky 
only  for  mental  rest  and  diversion,  whereas  even  Lady 

297 


THE  BAG  OF  'SAFFRON 

Vaux,  gray  sheep  though  she  was,  was  a  brilliantly  enter- 
taining woman,  the  honored  friend  of  many  distinguished 
scientific  and  artistic  people. 

The  men  whom  Cuckoo  met  were  less  interesting,  being 
chiefly  little  dark  creatures  from  southern  countries,  re- 
markable more  for  their  riches  and  the  diversity  and 
extravagance  of  their  amours  than  for  anything  else. 

It  was  plain  to  la  petite  Loxley  from  the  first  that  in 
the  commodious  and  elegant  aviary  into  which  her  errant 
wings  had  borne  her,  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways  was  only 
an  occasional  sojourner.  His  was  a  stronger,  more  savage 
pinion  than  those  of  the  other  birds  there,  his  note  a 
wilder  one. 

"He's  staying  on  in  Paris  entirely  on  your  account,  you 
know,"  Lady  Vaux  said  to  her  on  one  occasion. 

"I'm  sure  you  are  mistaken,"  Cuckoo  answered.  "He 
has  hundreds  of  friends  here" 

The  elder  woman  smiled  not  altogether  merrily.  "My 
dear  child,"  she  said,  "I've  known  Pelly  Janeways  for 
fifteen  years  and  I'm  pretty  well  used  to  his  little  ways! 
Where,  by  the  way,"  she  added,  suddenly,  "is  your  hus- 
band?" 

"In  Cyprus.  Why,  do  you  think  I  am  in  danger  of 
being  snatched  from  him?" 

Lady  Vaux  laughed.  "Emphatically  not.  The  dear 
Magnificent  never  snatched,  even  in  his  most  dangerous 
days.  He — he  whistles,  and — we  go  to  him,"  she  added, 
whimsically. 

"He  sounds  quite  odious,"  Cuckoo  criticized,  her  nose 
in  the  air.  "Like  the  irresistible  hero  in  a  servants'  half- 
penny novelette !" 

"Yes,  he  does,  rather,"  conceded  the  other  woman, 
slowly;  "it  would  take  a  genius  to  tell  his  story  without 
vulgarizing  him  into  that  kind  of  thing.  Anthony  Hamil- 
ton might  have  done  it " 

298 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"If  he  had,  there'd  have  been  more  of  Anthony  Hamil- 
ton in  the  book  than  of  Peregrine  Janeways,"  commented 
Cuckoo.  "He  ought  to  write  it  himself,  as  Casanova 
did  his.  Monsieur  Ledru  says  he  is  like  Casanova,  any- 
how  " 

Meantime  Janeways'  attentions  to  young  Mrs.  Loxley 
were  of  a  highly  un-Casanovesque  type. 

A  lover  of  beautiful  and  noble  things  himself,  he  as- 
sumed in  her  a  better  taste  than  she  really  possessed,  and 
he  took  her  to  see,  a  few  at  a  time,  some  of  the  finest 
pictures  in  the  world,  one  or  two  masterpieces  of  sculpture, 
and,  what  she  liked  better,  some  of  the  unspoilt  corners  of 
old  Paris. 

He  took  her  in  his  car  to  all  the  usual  shrines  of  the 
imagination  in  which  the  environs  of  the  beautiful  town 
so  generously  abound,  and  to  which  she  found,  a  little 
to  her  surprise,  he  reverently  bowed  his  gay  old  head. 

Versailles,  the  vulgarization  of  which  was  patent  even 
to  the  inexperienced  and  unstoried  Cuckoo,  still  held  for 
him  the  magic  he  had  found  in  it  nearly  half  a  century 
before,  and  as  they  stood  looking  at  the  little  Trianon  his 
big  eyes  swam  in  tears. 

"Poor  little  queen,"  he  said,  quite  unashamed  of  his 
emotion,  "poor  little  thing !"  And  for  a  moment  Cuckoo, 
too,  could  nearly  see  through  the  magic  casement  that 
so  plainly  stood  wide  open  to  her  companion. 

Malmaison,  on  the  contrary,  did  not  greatly  move  him. 
He  expressed  a  polite  sympathy  for  Josephine,  but  he 
despised  Napoleon  as  an  underbred  fellow  with  no 
romance  in  him. 

On  one  unforgettable  golden  afternoon  Janeways  took 
Cuckoo  to  a  little  old  convent  in  a  steep  street  in  old 
Paris.  It  was  a  warm  day ;  Cuckoo  wore  a  new  frock  that 
had  been  made  for  her  as  no  other  frock  had  ever  been, 

299 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

by  a  great  artist,  and  she  looked  her  highest  best.  Jane- 
ways,  dressed  as  he  usually  was,  in  blue  serge,  had  a 
flower  in  his  coat;  there  was  also,  obviously,  a  flower  in 
his  heart,  and  that  flower  was  blossoming  furiously  as 
they  walked  up  the  steep,  cobbled  street  at  the  foot  of 
which  they  had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  car. 

"Sister  Marie  Seraphine,"  he  explained,  as  they  paused 
outside  a  little  old  church  in  the  square,  to  get  their 
breath,  and  looked  back  over  their  rugged  way,  "was  the 
prettiest  girl  you  ever  saw  in  your  life,  forty  years  ago. 
Ah,  how  long  ago  it  is,  forty  years !  She  lived  with  her 
grandmother,  and  I,  a  youth,  was  often  at  the  house.  She 
was  fiancee  with  a  young  man  who  adored  her  and  they 
were  to  be  married  in  a  month,  when  suddenly  she  broke 
the  engagement  and  came  here — to  the  convent.  Poor 
Xavier  nearly  broke  his  heart — he  is  still  alive,  and  still 
unmarried — and  now  you  will  see  in  the  heroine  of  this 
real  romance,  a  little  old  dried-up  nun " 

He  broke  off,  looking  dreamily  down  the  street,  and 
Cuckoo  studied  his  face  in  its  unconsciousness.  That  he 
could  be  and  was,  all  of  a  sudden,  so  innocent  of  the 
presence  of  anyone  and  anything  but  his  own  dream,  had 
always  been  one  of  his  most  attractive  qualities,  but  this 
she  could  not  know,  and  it  struck  her  as  odd  and  in  a 
way  childlike. 

After  a  while  they  resumed  their  climb,  and  having 
waited  some  minutes  at  the  gate,  were  admitted  into  the 
convent  garden. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  sunny,  warm  enclosure,  where  a 
few  roses  still  clung  to  the  bushes  and  where  a  great  vine 
on  the  south  wall  was  still  green,  lay  the  old  yellow  build- 
ing with  its  many  windows  and  its  big  closed  door. 

The  sister  who  let  them  in  opened  a  small  door  that  was 
cut  in  the  large  one,  and  presently  they  found  themselves 
in  a  little  austere  parlor.  Janeways  was  very  grave  as 

300 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

he  sat  by  the  window,  facing  the  door  whence  his  old 
friend  must  come. 

Cuckoo  looked  round  her;  the  atmosphere  of  the  place 
made  her  vaguely  uncomfortable;  it  sm«»lt  of  soap  and 
damp,  and  beeswax  and  shut-in-ness  and  incense,  and  all 
these  things  together  made  a  combination  which  she  men- 
tally called  a  smell  of  piety.  This  smell  she  disliked,  and 
she  hated  the  simian  face  of  the  late  Pope  as  it  grinned 
at  her  in  an  exasperating  rictus  from  its  frame  on  the 
wall. 

In  the  garden  behind  the  house  she  saw  various  feminine 
figures  flitting  noiselessly  about,  some  of  them  busy,  others 
walking  for  their  health's  sake,  but,  she  saw  with  a  nervous 
movement  of  impatience,  praying  as  they  walked. 

She  wished  she  had  not  come ;  she  wished  she  could  go ; 
she  wished  .  .  . 

Then  the  door  opened  and  Sister  Marie  Seraphine  came 
in. 

The  Order  was  not  one  of  the  strictest,  so  she  was  not 
behind  a  grating  but  sat  in  a  chair  opposite  her  old  friend, 
and  talked  to  him  without  any  particular  air  of  reserve. 

She  smiled  very  kindly  at  Cuckoo,  when  Janeways 
introduced  them,  and  the  girl  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full 
of  love  and  sweetness. 

Janeways  and  she  talked  together,  speaking  so  rapidly 
that  Cuckoo  could  hardly  follow  them,  but  presently  the 
nun  turned  to  her  and  said  very  slowly,  "You  are  English, 
Mademoiselle  ?" 

"I  am  English,"  Cuckoo  answered  in  her  indifferent 
French,  "but  I  am  not  Mademoiselle." 

"Ah!  you  must  forgive  my  mistake.  It  interests  me 
to  meet  an  English  lady,"  the  nun  went  on.  "I  have 
never  before  met  one." 

In  answer  to  Cuckoo's  surprise  she  added,  with  a  smile 

301 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  peculiar  beauty,  "Indeed,  Sair  Peregrine  is  the  only 
English  person  I  have  ever  known." 

When  Cuckoo  and  Janeways  again  stood  outside  the 
high  garden  wall,  he  asked  her  if  she  had  enjoyed  her 
visit. 

"I  don't  like  the — the  feel  of  a  convent,"  she  returned. 
"It  seemed  to  be  going  to  take  my  breath  away.  But  I 
liked  her.  She  is  beautiful." 

"Yes.  She  was  always  nearly  an  angel.  I  once  very 
nearly  fell  in  love  with  her,  we  are  just  of  an  age,  and — 
did  I  ever  tell  you,"  he  broke  off,  "the  story  of  an  old 
jewel  of  mine,  called  the  Bag  of  Saffron?" 

She  shook  her  head.     "No." 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "I'll  tell  it  to  you.  Let's 
sit  on  that  bench  outside  the  church,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
Conte" — he  added  with  sudden  sadness,  "d'un  grandpere." 
They  sat  down  on  the  bench,  and  taking  off  his  hat  and 
leaning  his  head  against  the  dingy  wall  of  the  church,  he 
told  his  story. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  he  began,  "there  lived  in  Genoa, 
by  the  sea,  an  old  man  who  had  only  one  son ; 

Below  them  stretched  the  rough  street,  which,  running 
between  high  walls,  was  almost  like  a  village  street,  and 
beyond  the  houses  at  its  foot  they  could  see  miles  of  roofs 
and  a  vast  pale  sky  out  of  which  dripped  unevenly  the 
golden  light  that  so  delicately  painted  the  irregular  gabled 
roofs  and  the  glittering  curve  that  was  the  river. 

" — So  the  son,  whose  name  has  been  forgotten,"  the 
story  went  on,  "took  his  bundle  and  three  pieces  of  gold, 
like  the  youths  in  all  the  fairy-tales,  and  crossed  the  sea, 
leaving  the  sun  behind  him,  and  came  to  a  chilly,  gray 
island  where  reigned  an  old  king  who  wore  a  red  rose  in 
his  crown. 

"The  young  man,  who  as  you  know  was  a  goldsmith, 
went  to  a  great  maker  of  jewels  in  the  king's  town  and 

302 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

showed  him  his  work,  and  the  old  man  said,  'By  my  soul, 
young  stranger,  your  work  is  finer  than  mine.  Who  are 
you,  and  whence  come  you?'  Are  you  listening,  Mrs. 
Loxley?" 

Cuckoo  started.     "I  am." 

"Good.  So  the  young  man  said  in  Italian,  'Son  pel- 
ligrino  Genovese,'  which  means,  'I  am  a  Genoese  pilgrim.' ' 

"Now  the  old  goldsmith  could  not  speak  Italian,  so 
when  he  tried  to  say  'pelligrino  Genovese,'  he  said  'pelli- 
grin  Janeways' " 

"Oh!"  Cuckoo  turned,  her  face  flashing  with  interest, 
"I  see.  That's " 

"Yes,  that's  the  origin  of  my  name.  From  Pelligrin 
it  naturally  evolved  into  Peregrine,  and  ever  since  the 
eldest  son  of  my  people  has  been  called  Peregrine." 

"But  who  was  the  old  king  with  the  red  rose  in  his 
crown?" 

"The  good  King  Henry  VII.  But  I  really  want  to 
tell  you  the  story  of  the  Bag  of  Saffron.  You  are  not 
tired  of  it,  are  you?  There  is  an  old  Ligurian  legend 
about  saffron,  it  was  said  to  harm  those  in  whom  lay  the 
germ  of  illness,  mental  or  physical,  but  to  a  sound  person 
it  was  believed  to  give  strength,  and  a  continuance  and 
perfection  of  his  or  her  goodness.  Therefore  it  follows 
that  it  should  be  worn  only  by  a  man  who  is  brave  or  a 
woman  who  is  good.  Do  you  see?" 

"Yes.  Then  you  think  valor  in  a  man  and — goodness 
in  a  woman  are — equally  necessary  things?" 

Janeways  looked  gravely  out  over  the  widespread  scene 
before  them,  the  afternoon  light  turning  his  eyes  to  little 
pools  of  gold.  "Of  course,"  he  said,  simply,  "a  man  who 
is  not  brave  is  surely  as  horrible  as  a  woman  who  isn't 
good." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Cuckoo  went  on  slowly, 
urged  by  a  strong  wish  to  know  what  he  thought,  "But— - 

303 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

surely  you  yourself  have  not — you  have  not  done  much 
to  help  women  be  good?" 

He  did  not  move,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  frowning, 
not  so  much  angrily  as  thoughtfully.  "I  know  what  you 
mean,  of  course,"  he  answered  at  length,  "but  you  see, 
you  don't  exactly  see  what  I  mean  by  goodness." 

"It  is  obvious  that  I  don't.     Won't  you  tell  me?" 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  gently.  "My  dear," 
he  said,  "I  am  an  old  man  and  I  love  women — all  of  them. 
I  have  known  a  few  good  ones,  but  by  good  I  mean  some- 
thing I  can't  quite  explain.  Only  one  thing  is  really  ex- 
pressible. I  mean  by  the  word  good  something  much  more 
than  mere  physical  virtue.  I  mean,  possibly  chiefly,  kind- 
ness of  mind  as  well  as  kindness  of  heart ;  and  I  mean  fair- 
ness of  vision;  and  forgivingness — ah,  I  mean  many 
things ! 

"But  to  get  back  to  my  story.  That  first  Peregrine 
Janeways  fell  in  love  one  day  with  a  girl  who  was  the 
daughter  of  a  neighbor  of  his  master.  And  the  girl — I 
hope  her  name  was  Mary — seemed  to  him  so  good,  so 
perfect,  that  he  set  his  mind  to  finding  some  gift  he  could 
give  her. 

"According  to  his  Ligurian  legend,  saffron  was  the  best 
of  gifts,  and  saffron  he  would  give  the  maid  he  loved.  So 
he  bought  gold  and  wrought  a  little  bag,  and  in  the  mesh 
he  wove  topazes — probably  because  they  were  cheap — 
and  he  walked  to  a  garden  in  the  country  and  picked 
saffron  leaves,  and  put  them  into  the  bag  and  gave  it  to 
his  sweetheart " 

"And  the  bag  now  hangs  on  a  beautiful  diamond  chain 
and  you  own  it,  and  I  have  had  it  in  my  hands !" 

At  Cuckoo's  words  he  turned  and  stared  at  her  in  ludi- 
crous surprise. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried. 

And  she  told  him  Tier  story:  of  the  day  her  uncle  had 

304 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

bought  her  a  string  of  pearls,  and  how  the  salesman  had 
showed  them  the  odd  jewel.  When  he  had  expressed  his 
amazement  at  the  curious  hazard,  he  told  the  rest  of  the 
story. 

"It  was  my  great,  great  grandmother,  also,  curiously 
enough,  a  Genoese,  who  revived  our  interest  in  the  little 
bag,  and  her  husband  had  the  chain  made  for  it.  It's  a 
funny  little  thing,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  delightful.  But  who  wears  it,  and  what  did  you 
mean  about  Sister  Marie  Seraphine?" 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  then  he  answered  both 
questions. 

"Each  Janeways — each  eldest  son — gives  it  during  his 
life  to  some  woman.  But  never,  no  matter  what  happens, 
to  more  than  one.  So  you  see  one  must  be  pretty  sure 
about  the  one  woman,  and — about  one's  own  feelings  about 
her.  I  was  perfectly  sure  that  Marie  Aumonier  was  the 
best  woman  I  had  ever  met  or  ever  should  meet.  It  was 
only  of  myself  that  I  was  not  sure." 

"That,  of  course,"  Cuckoo  said  very  softly,  "was  why 
she  went  into  the  convent?" 

"Yes.  She  told  me  years  after.  It's  so  long  ago  now 
that  it's  like  talking  of  some  other  man — she  did  love 
me,  and  she  knew  that  I  was  not  sure,  so  she  engaged 
herself  to  poor  Xavier  and  then,  at  the  last  minute " 

"She  could  not  marry  him  and  became  a  nun." 

After  a  time  Janeways  spoke  again.  "My  mother  was 
the  last  woman  round  whose  neck  that  chain  has  hung, 
and  I  have  no  son.  When  I  die  I  shall  have  the  bag — 
not  the  chain — buried  with  me." 

Then  he  rose,  gave  himself  a  shake  and  laughed.  "So 
there  is  the  history  of  the  Bag  of  Saffron!  Come,  Mrs. 
Loxley — by  the  way,  what  is  your  name?  It  can't  be 
Nicky !" 

"Nicoleta.     I  have  Italian  blood,  too." 

305 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Good.  I  thought  you  had.  Come,  then,  Madame 
Nicoleta,  let  us  get  back  to  our  coach " 

Cuckoo  did  not  ask  herself  why  she  had  not  told  him 
who  she  was,  even  that  Loxley  and  not  Locksley,  as  he 
had  assumed,  was  her  name.  He  had  sent  her  flowers 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Locksley,  and  thus  she  knew  why  he 
did  not  associate  her  with  his  old  acquaintance,  the  Vicar 
of  Widdybank;  and  there  seemed  to  her  to  lie  in  her  in- 
cognito a  safeguard  against  some  as  yet  undeclared 
danger. 

That  evening  she  wrote  to  George,  telling  him  simply 
that  she  was  visiting  the  Countess,  who  was  an  old  friend 
of  Lady  Pelter's,  and  that  she  had  met  Sir  Peregrine 
Janeways.  "He  is,"  she  added,  "a  charming  old 
thine— " 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MARGUERITE  LENSKY  was  a  very  nice  woman 
in  many  ways,  and  despite  her  little  external 
vulgarities,  she  had  what  Cuckoo  in  self-com- 
munion called  a  very  decent  mind.  She  had  the  delicacy 
of  not  asking  questions,  and  it  was  her  stopping  teasing 
her  young  guest  about  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways'  attentions 
that  first  opened  Cuckoo's  eyes  to  the  fact  that  the  old 
beau  really  meant  anything  beyond  a  delightful  and  ro- 
mantic friendship.  At  first,  all  of  the  little  coterie  had 
chaffed  her  about  II  Magnifico,  and  what  was  worse,  some 
of  them  had  even  ventured  to  chaff  her  under  Janeways' 
very  nose.  That  organ,  however,  remained  so  blandly 
unconscious  of  the  very  possibility  of  anyone's  taking  such 
a  liberty  with  it,  that  even  Lady  Vaux  soon  gave  up  mak- 
ing remarks  that  were  meant  to  pique  him. 

One  very  wet  afternoon,  the  Countess  and  her  guest 
were  sitting  in  a  little  smoking-room  hung  with  crimson 
Florentine  brocade,  waiting  for  dressing-time.  The 
Countess,  who  was  very  tired,  wore  an  elaborate  tea- 
gown,  and  Cuckoo  felt  ashamed  of  herself  for  noting  that 
her  kind  friend's  outline  under  the  meager  disguise  of 
the  tea-gown  was,  in  its  uncorseted  state,  not  unlike  Aunt 
Marcia's.  The  Countess  lay  on  a  chaise-longue,  smoking 
and  polishing  her  nails ;  Cuckoo  sat  on  the  rug  by  the  fire, 
her  head  against  one  of  the  big  easy-chairs.  The  Count- 
ess had  just  finished  the  story  of  her  own  marriage  to 
Paul  Lensky  and  of  the  inevitable  breaking  of  that  more 
or  less  sacred  tie. 

"He  would  have  cleaned  me  out,"  she  wound  up,  "in 

307 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

another  two  years.  My  trustees  did  hate  him  like  poison, 
but  he  managed  to  get  money  out  of  them.  It  was  a 
real  gift  with  him " 

Cuckoo  nodded.    "So  in  reality  you  just  paid  him  off?" 

"I  did.  I  give  him  a  fairly  good  income  now,  you 
know.  Poor  old  Paul;  I'm  sort  of  fond  of  him  in  spite 
of  everything.  He  seems  to  be  quite  happy  trotting  about 
with  little  .Minnas  and  Josephines,  as  he  calls  them.  He 
came  to  see  me  not  long  ago,  and  I  was  real  glad  to  hear 
his  voice.  He  stayed  to  dinner  and  we  had  a  long  talk — 
but,  my !  I  was  glad  when  he  went." 

After  a  minute  she  added  with  a  good-natured  laugh, 
"And  so  was  he,  I  suppose!  Well,  that's  my  little  lot. 
Now  suppose  you  tell  me  about  your  husband,  Nicky." 

Cuckoo  had  for  a  long  time  been  expecting  just  this 
conversation,  and  she  was  prepared  for  it. 

"There's  very  little  to  tell,"  she  said ;  "he's  a  delight- 
ful person,  but  we  shouldn't  have  married;  not  enough 
money,  and  we're  both  too  nervous.  George  ought  to 
have  married  a  woman  like  a  feather  pillow,  and  I — 
well,  I  don't  know  whom  I  should  have  married — nobody, 
if  I'd  had  any  money." 

The  Countess  glanced  at  her  curiously.  "Do  you  really 
mean  that?"  she  said.  "You  English  women  lie  so  hor- 
ribly about  that  kind  of  thing.  Now,  as  for  me,  I'm  al- 
ways in  love  with  somebody — even  now  when  I'm  really 
far  enough  to  know  better,  and  English  women  are  cer- 
tainly much  more  loving  than  we  are.  E.ven  poor  Queenie 
— and  everybody  knows  about  her  love  affairs — lies  like 
a  whale ;  pretends  she  never  cared  for  anybody  but  War- 
renden." 

Cuckoo  stared  into  the  fire.  "I  certainly  cared  for 
George,"  she  said  slowly,  "although,  from  what  I  have 
seen  of  ether  people,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  was  in  love  with 
him." 

308 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"And  you  never  cared  for  anybody  else?" 

"Never." 

"Well,"  said  the  Countess,  "I'd  rather  die  in  a  ilitcK 
than  be  like  that.  I'd  like  to  see  your  husband.  Have 
you  got  a  picture  of  him?" 

Cuckoo  had,  and  fetched  it  from  her  room.  It  was  a 
large,  well-taken  photograph  in  a  leather  frame,  and  the 
Countess  looked  at  it  for  a  long  while  in  silence. 

"Nice  boy  he  looks,"  she  declared  at  length.  "Young, 
isn't  he?" 

"He's  twenty-five." 

"Beautiful  eyes;  looks  a  little  delicate,  doesn't  he? 
Perhaps  he's  just  a  little  too  tame  for  you,  Nicky?" 

Cuckoo  reflected.  Tame  was  not  exactly  the  word, 
but  she  didn't  know  how  to  better  it.  She  would  not 
have  minded  telling  the  whole  truth  to  this  common, 
noisy  American  woman,  for  the  common,  noisy  American 
was  kind,  and  sincere,  and  really  sympathetic.  But 
Cuckoo  had  not  learned  the  whole  truth  about  herself  and 
George,  so  she  took  the  photograph  and  put  it  on  the 
table. 

"He  isn't  tame,"  she  said,  "he's  a  (dear,  really.  Some- 
times I  think  it's  just  that  I'm  not  good  enough  for  him." 

The  Countess  sat  up  suddenly. 

"Then  you  don't  get  on  well  together?"  she  cried,  with 
the  joy  of  one  who  is  justified  in  an  intuition. 

"Not  very.  You  see,  we're  poor,  and  we're  too  much 
together,  and  we're  both  nervous  and  we  get  on  each  oth- 
er's nerves,  I  think." 

The  telephone  bell  rang  in  the  library  close  at  hand, 
and  the  Countess  rose  to  go  to  it. 

"That's  sure  to  be  Juan,"  she  said.  "Look  here, 
Nicky,"  she  added,  putting  her  hand  on  the  younger 
woman's  shoulder,  and  speaking,  despite  her  make-up  and 
her  dyed  hair,  in  an  earnest,  motherly  way.  "Give  your- 

309 


self  another  chance.  Don't  get  too  involved  with  Pelly 
Janeways,  or  anyone  else.  You  and  George  are  both 
young,  and  after  all,  marriage  does  mean  something. 
Perhaps" — and  her  over-red  face  saddened  suddenly — 
"you  may  have  a  child  some  day,  and  that  would  make 
it  all  right.  I  believe  it  would  have  made  things  all  right 
even  for  Paul  and  me.  Oh,  damn,"  she  went  on  suddenly 
to  the  telephone  bell,  as  she  lumbered  across  the  floor  to- 
wards it.  "Do  shut  up,  I'm  coming." 

They  dined  with  Janeways  that  night,  in  his  apparte- 
ment  in  the  Avenue  de  Bois.  The  only  other  guest  was  a 
Greek,  who,  because  his  name  was  Diamantopoulos,  was 
usually  known  as  Mantepop,  and  the  dinner  in  the  quiet, 
sober,  dining-room,  served  by  grave  French  servants, 
seemed  to  Cuckoo  an  amazing  change  from  the  dinners 
that  had  of  late  fallen  to  her  lot.  Janeways  was  a  little 
distrait,  and  Mantepop,  who  never  had  been  known  to 
stop  talking,  carried  on  his  flow  of  conversation  almost 
uninterruptedly.  Janeways  had  engaged  a  box  at  the 
Folies  Bergeres,  and  after  coffee  they  went  on  there. 
Mantepop  devoted  himself  to  the  Countess,  who  shrieked 
with  laughter  over  his  whispered  tales  and  called  him  a 
sale  type,  evidently  under  the  impression  that  this  phrase 
was  one  of  great  elegance;  and  Cuckoo  and  Janeways, 
both  tired,  both  for  some  reason  a  little  out  of  spirits, 
hardly  spoke  to  each  other.  The  program  was  not  a 
particularly  exciting  one,  and  Janeways,  who  was  always 
bored  at  music-halls,  looked  as  nearly  cross  as  Cuckoo  had 
ever  seen  him.  The  evening  bade  fair  to  be  very  dull,  but 
towards  its  middle  an  unexpected  diversion  was  the  arrival 
in  the  box,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  the  "pen"  in 
which  Janeways  and  his  party  were  sitting,  of  two  men 
and  two  ladies.  They  came  in  very  quietly,  and  Cuckoo, 
who  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  box,  didn't  notice 
them.  But  after  a  while  she  straightened  in  her  chair 

310 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

and  listened.  It  was  Bertie  Fabricius'  voice  speaking  be- 
hind her,  and  Bertie  Fabricius  had  not  yet  seen  her  or 
her  companions,  for  he  was  seated  with  his  back  to  their 
box,  thus  facing  the  stage.  At  that  moment  Janeways, 
who  had  gone  to  speak  to  some  friend,  made  his  way  back 
towards  his  place,  and  one  of  the  ladies  with  Fabricius 
asked  who  he  was. 

"Oh,  that's  Janeways,  the  chap  they  call  The  Magnifi- 
cent," Bertie  explained,  as  Janeways  came  quietly  into 
the  box  and  sat  down  almost  behind  him.  "You  must  have 
heard  of  him,  Mrs.  Grant."  Mrs.  Grant  craned  her  neck 
and  looked  off  to  the  left. 

"Of  course,  I  have  heard  of  him — where's  he  gone? 
Has  he  run  away  with  anybody  lately?" 

Cuckoo,  leaning  back,  could  feel  Janeways'  breath  on 
her  shoulders,  so  closely  were  they  packed  in  the  tiny 
place.  Fabricius  laughed,  of  course  in  perfect  ignorance 
of  the  fact  that  Janeways,  by  stretching  out  his  hand, 
could  have  touched  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said;  "he's  not  so  much  in  the 
public  eye  as  he  used  to  be.  He's  a  most  delightful  fellow. 
He  must  be  getting  on,  you  know,  and  you  can't  expect 
the  man  to  go  on  coveting  his  neighbor's  wife  for  ever." 

"It  must  be  horrid,"  Mrs.  Grant  returned  in  a  perfectly 
kind  voice,  "for  a  man  of  that  type  to  grow  old.  I've 
often  thought  how  dreadful  it  must  be  for  very  beautiful 
women  of  the  corresponding  kind,  when  they  begin  to 
lose  their  charm  and  power,  but  for  a  man  it  must  be 
almost  worse.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  girl  hearing 
my  mother  talk  about  Pelly  Janeways,  as  she  called  him. 
She  was  devoted  to  him  and  never  would  hear  a  word 
against  him.  I  believe  he  has  hosts  of  friends." 

Bertie  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  Cuckoo  knew  from 
his  voice  that  he  was  annoyed.  "Oh,  yes,  he  was  always 
a  popular  man,  to  give  the  devil  his  due;  but  the  funny 

311 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

part  is  that  of  all  the  women  he  has  ill-treated — and  there 
must  have  been  hundreds — not  one  has  ever  made  real 
trouble  for  him,  and  nearly  all  of  them  have  remained 
his  friends.  What  a  very  dull  show  this  is !" 

After  a  minute  Mrs.  Grant  went  on.  "If  we  should 
chance  to  meet  him  as  we  go  out,  do  introduce  him  to  me, 
Sir  Hubert." 

Cuckoo  started.  If  Bertie  were  Sir  Hubert,  poor  old 
Uncle  Adolph  must  be  gone,  and  it  was  only  a  few  weeks 
since  she  had  seen  him  following  his  wife  to  the  car  that 
night.  Bertie,  she  reflected  angrily,  had  not  lost  much 
time  in  mourning.  And  then  came  the  thought  that  if 
Fabricius  had  married  her  she  would  have  been  rich  now — 
enormously  rich.  By  leaning  back  she  could  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  cousin's  right  profile  as  he  bent  towards 
pretty,  fluffy  Mrs.  Grant.  The  two  years  had  not  im- 
proved him.  The  back  of  his  neck  was  very  red  and 
bulged  over  the  top  of  his  collar.  Cuckoo  noticed  it,  but 
knew  it  would  have  made  no  difference  to  her.  .With  all 
her  soul  she  wished  she  had  married  him. 

Sir  Peregrine  had  not  spoken  since  coming  into  the  box, 
and  she  knew  that,  whereas  it  might  have  amused  some 
men  to  embarrass  the  neighboring  chatterers,  he,  with  his 
old-fashioned  courtesy,  would  be  distressed  if  they  should 
find  out  that  he  was  there;  so  she  took  his  lead  and  re- 
mained silent,  and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  even  Jane- 
ways  ever  knew  how  much  depended  on  Mrs.  Grant's  next 
remark. 

"By  the  way,  how  old  must  Felly  Janeways  be — nearly 
seventy,  isn't  he?" 

Cuckoo  heard  Peregrine  Janeways  draw  himself  up  be- 
hind her  and,  urged  by  a  simple  and  absolutely  innocent 
impulse  of  sympathy,  she  reached  her  hand  towards  him. 
He  took  it  in  his  for  a  moment,  and  ground  her  fingers 
together  in  a  grip  that  hurt. 

312 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"No,"  Fabricius  said  indifferently,  as  the  lights  went 
up  and  he  directed  his  glasses  on  somebody  on  the  other 
side  of  the  box.  "He  can't  be  that  old,  but  he's  well  over 
sixty.  His  career  as  Don  Juan  must  be  about  over.  I 
wonder  if  he  realizes,"  the  younger  man  went  on,  "that 
he's  a  back  number?" 

Cuckoo  felt  her  hand  gently  released,  and  the  next  sec- 
ond the  door  of  th*e  box  clicked  and  Janeways  had  gone. 
A  few  minutes  later,  during  an  interval,  he  came  in,  rather 
noisily,  and  said  to  .Cuckoo: 

"Excuse  me,  dear  Donna  Nicoleta,  for  having  left  you. 
I  hope  you  haven't  been  bored?"  Cuckoo  knew  that 
Bertie  had  heard  his  voice,  and  that  when  she  spoke  he 
must  recognize  hers ;  and  she  was  not  above  giving  a  be- 
lated dig  at  the  man  who  had  abused  her  before  his 
mother's  butler. 

"I  haven't  been  bored  at  all,  Sir  Peregrine,"  she  said; 
"in  fact,  I've  something  rather  amusing  to  tell  you." 

Janeways  sat  down. 

The  guilty  pair  in  the  next  box  sat  very  still,  waiting. 
The  game  was  in  Sir  Peregrine's  hands,  and  nobly  and 
deftly  he  played  it.  Leaning  behind  Cuckoo  he  tapped 
his  neighbor  on  the  back. 

"Surely  that's  you,  Fabricius?"  he  said  cordially. 
"How  are  you,  my  dear  fellow?"  He  had  never  called 
Bertie  Fab  "my  dear  fellow"  before  in  his  life,  and  Bertie 
Fab  knew  it.  The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  then  Jane- 
ways  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Grant,  who,  dreadfully  con- 
fused and  remorseful,  was  quite  pretty  enough  to  reward 
his  generosity  in  going  into  her  box  for  a  moment.  While 
they  talked  Bertie  found  courage  to  turn  to  his  cousin. 

"Look  here,  Cuckoo,"  he  said,  without  any  prelimin- 
aries, "you  surely  wouldn't  be  such  a  beast  as  to  tell 
him?" 

"Tell  him  what?"  Cuckoo  asked  innocently. 

313 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Oh,  what  we  were  saying  while  he  was  out  of  the  box." 

"He  wasn't  out  of  the  box." 

"Do  you  mean  he  heard?" 

"Every  word,  my  dear  cousin." 

Bertie  was  visibly  shaken. 

"By  Jove!"  he  muttered. 

"Did  you  get  my  letter  ?"  he  went  on  after  a  second.  "I 
sent  it  to  the  bank  because  I  didn't  know  your  address." 

"Your  letter?     No." 

Bertie  lowered  his  voice. 

"My  poor  father  died  on  the  eighteenth  of  this  month, 
and  just  before  the  end  he  asked  me  to  give  you  a  mes- 
sage." 

"Oh,  Bertie,"  she  burst  out,  "I  am  so  sorry ;  really  and 
truly  sorry.  The  eighteenth — the  last  day  I  was  in  town. 
I  did  love  him,  you  know." 

"I  believe  you  did — and  he  was  very  fond  of  you.  He 
never  got  over  that — that  business.  But  he  never  said  one 
word  against  you,  Nicky.  Where  are  you  staying?  Can 
I  come  and  see  you?" 

She  was  about  to  say  yes,  and  then  she  realized  how 
little  she  wished  any  conversation  about  her  to  take  place 
between  her  cousin  and  Janeways. 

"I  don't  think  there  would  be  any  good  in  your  coming 
to  see  me.  My  husband  is  in  Cyprus  and  I  am  visiting 
the  Countess  Lensky  for  a  few  weeks.  Can't  you  tell  me 
now  what  the  message  is?" 

"AH  right,  just  as  you  like.  It  was  only  to  give  you 
his  love  and  to  say  that  he  hoped  you  would  be  happy, 
and  something  about  something  you  returned  to  him — 
that  he  knew  it  was  not  your  fault.  I  think  that's  what 
he  meant ;  that  he  knew  it  wasn't  your  fault." 

"I  see.  I'm  glad  he  said  that.  Thank  you  for  telling 
me."  Then  she  said  in  a  lower  voice,  "I'm  very  tired. 
I'm  going  to  ask  the  Countess  if  she'd  mind  going  home." 

314 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Bertie  looked  at  her.  He  was  wondering  wherein  had 
lain  her  enormous  charm  for  him,  and  she  could  see  him 
wondering. 

"How's  Aunt  Marcia?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  she's  fairly  fit,  although  the  shock  was  very  great. 
I'm  taking  her  down  to  Hyeres  to-morrow.  That's  why 
I'm  here.  Oh,  Cuckoo,  I  forgot  to  tell  you — father  left 
you  five  hundred  pounds." 

She  gave  a  little  gasp.    "Oh,  Bertie,  how  kind  of  him !" 

"Yes.  He  saw  Loxley  not  long  ago  and  thought  he 
looked  very  seedy,  and  I  think  he  had  an  idea  that  you 
might  like  to  get  him  to  a  good  climate " 

At  this  juncture  Janeways  rose,  and  shaking  hands  with 
Mrs.  Grant  and  the  other  woman  in  her  party,  came  back 
to  his  own  box.  He  had  heard  Cuckoo  talking  to  Fabri- 
cius,  but  had  not  caught  any  of  their  words,  and  when 
the  Countess,  who  really  had  a  headache,  suggested  to 
him  that  they  might  as  well  go  now  before  the  general 
exodus,  he  bowed  gravely  and  they  made  their  way  out 
to  where  his  car  was  waiting  for  them. 

"You  must  come  back  with  me,"  he  said,  "and  I'll 
make  you  some  real  Turkish  coffee.  It's  only  a  little 
after  eleven " 

For  some  reason  Cuckoo  had,  at  his  words,  a  sudden 
extremely  clear  vision  of  Aunt  Flora  and  Aunt  Effie 
going  up  their  narrow  stairs  at  Roseroofs  at  sharp  ten 
o'clock,  each  with  her  bedroom  candle  lighted  in  her  hand. 

Janeways  made  the  coffee  himself  over  a  little  lamp  on 
a  beaten  brass  tray  in  his  big  library,  Cuckoo  sitting  by 
him,  while  Marguerite  and  the  still  steadily  talking  Man- 
tepop  sat  on  a  distant  sofa,  where,  she  said,  the  light 
would  not  hurt  her  eyes.  Janeways  had  given  her  aspirin, 
and  she  lay  back  very  comfortably,  not  even  listening 
to  the  unceasing  sound  of  her  companion's  words.  That 

315 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

was  the  beauty  of  Mantepop — one  didn't  Have  to  listen 
to  him. 

Janeways,  Cuckoo  saw,  was  pale,  and  the  lines  from 
his  nose  to  the  corners  of  his  mouth  seemed  deeper. 
It  was  clear,  in  a  way  pathetically  clear,  that  the  con- 
versation in  the  next  box  had  hurt  him.  Cuckoo  was 
sincerely  sorry  for  him;  for  all  his  age  and  vast  experi- 
ence, he  reminded  her,  as  he  carefully  stirred  his  coffee 
after  damping  it  with  a  little  rose-water,  of  a  hurt  child. 

"Wasn't  it  funny,"  she  said,  with  an  apparent  lack  of 
tact  that  covered  a  really  kindly  impulse,  "Bertie  Fab- 
ricius  talking  such  nonsense?" 

He  bent  over  the  smoking  brass  pot  until  she  could 
only  see  his  beautiful  white  hair.  Then  he  looked  slowly 
up  at  her  through  the  steam,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of 
anguished  questioning. 

"Would  anybody,"  he  asked,  "really  take  me  for  sev- 
enty?" 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "Never!  I'm  a  fairly  good  guesser 
of  ages,  and  I  never  would  have  taken  you  for  more  than 
fifty." 

His  face  cleared  a  little. 

"Honor  bright  ?"  he  asked. 

"Honor  bright." 

"But  you,  you  see,"  he  said  mournfully,  "you  are 
clever.  You  don't  judge  me  entirely  by  my  hair,  as  most 
people  judge  their  fellow-creatures." 

"No,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "I  think  I  judge  you  more 
by  the  way  you  move — and  then  by  your  hands " 

He  held  one  of  his  hands  up,  and  looked  at  it  critically. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "It's  certainly  not  the  hand  of  a  back 
number " 

He  took  Cuckoo's  hand,  and,  hid  from  the  others  as 
they  were  by  the  projecting  corner  of  a  splendid  Coro- 
mandel  screen,  kissed  it.  It  seemed  to  her  afterwards, 

316 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

looking  back  on  that  moment,  as  if  his  kiss  had  begun  as 
one  of  simple  gratitude  and  friendship,  but  it  ended  dif- 
ferently. 

Suddenly  he  drew  her  to  him,  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  her. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "my  little  red-lipped 
Nicoleta,  I  love  you." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

PEREGRINE  JANEWAYS  was  a  perfectly  honest 
man,  not  only  did  he  never  try  to  deceive  others, 
but  he  never  attempted  the  far  more  usual  and  sub- 
tle form  of  deceit  of  trying  to  deceive  himself. 

Therefore,  the  day  after  his  declaration  to  Nicoleta 
Locksley,  as  he  called  her,  he  sat  down  in  his  study  and 
deliberately  and  honestly  thought  things  out.  He  had 
made  his  declaration,  spurred  not  only  by  the  feeling  that 
for  days  had  been  growing  within  him,  but  also  and  even 
more,  by  the  shock  he  had  sustained  in  hearing  little  Mrs. 
Grant  suggest  that  he  must  be  seventy.  He  had  never 
condescended  to  the  absurdity  of  trying  to  be  younger 
than  he  was,  but  he  had  to  the  full  realized  that  he  was, 
so  to  speak,  younger  than  he  was.  In  no  way  but  the 
whitening  of  his  abundant  hair  had  the  approach  of  age 
manifested  itself  in  him;  his  eyes  were  as  bright  as  ever, 
his  teeth  were  perfect,  his  immense  physical  strength 
practically  unimpaired. 

And  what  meant,  in  reality,  more  than  these  things, 
his  mental  vitality  was  as  remarkable  as  ever.  He  could 
learn  things  by  heart  as  easily  as  he  had  done  in  his  child- 
hood; his  memory  was  excellent;  his  interest  in  people 
and  in  events  as  keen  as  it  had  been  in  his  twenties. 

He  had  not  been  vain  of  these  remarkable  advantages, 
for  they  had  always  been  his  as  much  as  had  his  faculty 
of  indefatigability,  or  the  iron  strength  of  his  hands; 
but  he  had  been  aware  of  them,  and  unconsciously  he  had 
expected  other  people  to  be  aware  of  them  as  well. 

Every  human  being  inclines  to  regard  his  or  her  self 

318 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

mpre  or  less  as  an  exception  from  the  general  run  of 
humanity,  but  Janeways  was  in  truth  an  exception  and 
had  always  known  it. 

And  now  this  fat  Fabricius  fellow,  bloated  and  coars- 
ened and  degenerated  by  drink  and  other  excesses,  this 
man  just  over  forty,  whom  he,  Janeways,  could  undoubt- 
edly double  up  and  throw  downstairs  if  he  wished  to,  had 
relegated  him  to  the  category  of  worn-out  old  men;  to 
the  class  of  men  whose  life  lies  behind  them,  while  they 
accumulate  dust  and  cobwebs  on  the  shelf  whence  they 
will  descend  only  to  exchange  it  for  the  hardly  duller 
grave ! 

Never  in  his  life  had  he  had  such  a  blow,,  and  in  the  very 
tremor  of  anger  that  the  blow  roused  in  him  had  he  re- 
ceived his  unmistakable  sign  that  he  was  an  old  man.  Not 
so  would  his  blood  have  shaken  his  heart  a  few  years  ago ; 
not  so  would  his  breath  have  failed  him.  He  remembered 
the  sensation  almost  of  giddiness  that  had  beset  him  as  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  foyer  after  his  unheard  exit  from 
the  box.  He  had  had  to  wipe  his  brow,  he  recollected, 
and  he  had  seen  his  own  hands  tremble. 

These  manifestations  were  the  manifestations  of  the  old 
age  of  a  man,  who,  though  he  had  been  able  a  few  minutes 
later  to  go  back  into  the  box,  speak  to  his  traducer,  and 
carry  the  whole  thing  off  with  a  high  manner,  had  yet 
had  to  make  a  tremendous  effort  to  do  it ! 

And  this  fact,  he  saw  clearly,  proved  that  the  objec- 
tionable and  out-of-condition  Bertie  Fabricius  had  not 
been  his  traducer  after  all.  Bertie  Fabricius  had  been  his 
illuminator,  his  elucidator,  his  mirror,  all  at  once. 

It  rained,  as  it  had  rained  the  day  before,  and  Jane- 
ways  sat  in  his  pleasant,  firelit  study  all  the  afternoon, 
wounded  to  the  soul,  hurt  as  he  had  never  been  hurt,  in 
his  vanity,  his  pride  of  manhood,  even  in  his  pride  of 
intellect,  for  had  not  his  failing  to  recognize  what  was  so 

319 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

clear  to  that  ass  Fabricius  been  a  sign  that  his  brain  had 
indeed  lost  something  of  its  vigor? 

Giulio,  his  valet,  a  small,  dark,  surly  Italian,  who  rarely 
spoke  but  always  saw,  twice  came  into  the  room  on  some 
pretext,  and  looked  at  his  master  with  eyes  of  anxiety. 

"Is  the  Signore  well?"  he  asked  the  second  time. 

Janeways'  gloom  softened  a  little  as  he  looked  at  the 
surly  little  fellow. 

"No,  Giulio,"  he  answered  sadly.  "Not  well.  Fve 
been" — he  tapped  his  broad  chest — "Mi  duole  U 
cuore " 

Englishman  as  he  regarded  himself,  he  could  not  have 
said  in  English  that  his  heart  ached,  but  to  this  Italian  it 
came  natural  to  him  to  say  it  in  Italian. 

Giulio  nodded.  "Courage,"  he  said,  "it  is  only  that 
we  are  not,  you  and  I,  sir,  as  young  as  we  once  were " 

So,  then,  the  little  dried-up  servant  had  had  more  sense 
than  his  master.  Giulio  had  known  that  they  were  grow- 
ing old,  the  pair  of  them,  while  he,  Janeways,  had  over- 
looked his  age  as  a  trifling  matter! 

"Yes,  Giulio" — he  said,  after  a  pause,  "that  is  it,  and 
I  don't  like  it.  Accidente,"  he  broke  out  in  sudden  anger, 
"I  don't  want  to  grow  old.  I've  been  young  all  my  life !" 

Giulio  nodded.  "The  signore,"  he  declared,  with  a 
respectful  confidence  that  is  characteristic  of  the  best 
class  of  Italian  servants,  "should  have  grown  children — 
masculines  and  feminines.  One  of  his  feminines  could 
be  a  grandmother  herself,  these  days  when  they  marry 
young — then  il  signore  would  not  have  to  sit  alone  on  a 
day  of  rain,  and  dream  without  profit " 

Janeways  stared  at  him  for  a  moment.  Not  only  a 
grandfather  might  he  be,  but  a  great-grandfather! 

Giulio  watched  him  with  patient,  loving  eyes. 

Suddenly  Janeways  burst  into  a  gale  of  laughter  that 
literally  shook  him  as  a  gale  of  wind  shakes  a  tree. 

320 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Giulio's  idea  of  comfort  struck  him  as  very  absurd,  but 
his  own  dismay  at  the  realization  of  his  potential  great- 
grandfatherhood  was  funnier  still. 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  until  his  eyes  were 
wet. 

"You  are  right,  mascalzone,"  he  cried,  at  last,  "I  am 
old,  old,  old!  My  great-grandchildren  might  indeed  be 
crawling  round  me — there  on  the  carpet  behind  you  they 
might  be " 

Giulio  turned  seriously  and  glanced  down,  as  if  he  ex- 
pected to  see  little  ghosts  sporting  in  the  firelight,  and 
then  Janeways  dismissed  him  with  a  friendly  word,  and 
was  alone. 

He  felt  better  for  his  laugh,  for  the  first  shock  of  his 
awful  discovery  was  over  and,  like  all  resolutely  faced 
troubles,  it  dwindled  as  he  looked  at  it.  Bon!  he  was 
an  old  man.  But — and  vanity  rushed,  in  its  pleasant  and 
endearing  way,  to  the  rescue — he  was  of  all  old  men,  the 
strongest  and  most  vigorous. 

What  other  man  of  his  age,  he  reflected,  rising  and  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  room,  could  have  felt  as  young  as  he 
did  last  night  when  he  kissed  Nicoleta  Loxley! 

She,  it  was  plain,  did  not  think  him  old.  How  she  had 
blushed ! 

It  was  true  that  Cuckoo  had  blushed,  but  it  was  not 
altogether,  if  at  all,  through  emotion.  It  was  vanity  that 
brought  the  color  so  violently  to  her  face!  The  great 
Pelly  Janeways  loved  her,  and  she  triumphed  in  the 
thought.  Up  to  that  moment  she  had  seen  in  his  devo- 
tion nothing  more  than  a  pleasant  event  in  her  life,  but 
as  he  kissed  her  there  stirred  in  her  the  germ  of  an  idea 
that  was  destined  to  grow  with  amazing  rapidity. 

For  his  part  he  had  kissed  her  partly  out  of  gratitude 
for  her  belief  in  his  youth,  partly  out  of  the  sincere  though 

321 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ephemeral  passion  that  was  still  strong  in  him,  and  partly 
to  demonstrate  to  himself  that  Fabricius  was  an  ass. 

These  motives  he  acknowledged  to  himself  with  his  cus- 
tomary honesty,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  in  his  dark- 
ening room. 

Until  that  evening  Cuckoo  had  seemed  to  him  almost  a 
child;  a  child  with  a  peculiarly  subtle,  caviar-to-the- 
general  kind  of  charm.  He  had  been  a  little  in  love  with 
her,  but  no  idea  of  loving  her  seriously  had  entered  his 
head.  She  was  one  of  the  numerous  young  wives  with 
invisible  and  obviously  unsatisfactory  husbands,  who 
never  seem  to  deny  themselves  the  gratification  of  any 
desultory  emotions  that  come  their  way,  and  he  had  liked 
her  and  had  not  regarded  her  as  a  possible  victim  any 
more  than  he  regarded  her  as  a  possible  victimizer.  He 
himself  had  never  been  a  flirt;  flirting  he  regarded  as  a 
peculiarly  unpleasant  and  ignoble  amusement.  He  was 
a  Lover,  not  a  player  at  love,  and  he  despised  those  who 
did  play  at  it. 

For  women  who  encouraged  men  to  lose  their  heads 
and  then  turned  on  them  and  rended  them,  he  had  ugly 
words,  and  feigning  any  emotion  honestly  seemed  to  him 
an  utterly  abominable  thing.  His  code  of  morals  was  pe- 
culiar, but  he  was  sincere  in  his  devotion  to  it. 

As  he  walked  about,  the  telephone-bell  rang,  and  he 
seated  himself  at  the  table  where  it  stood.  It  was  a 
woman's  voice,  which  at  first  he  didn't  recognize,  asking 
if  he  was  at  home. 

"Who  shall  I  say  wishes  to  speak  to  Sir  Peregrine 
Janeways?"  he  asked. 

"Mrs.  Loxley."  Cuckoo's  voice  sounded  very  nervous 
and  strained.  There  was  in  it  more  emotion  than  he  had 
ever  heard  in  it,  and  to  his  amazement  she  had  rung  up  to 
ask  him  to  drive  her  out  into  the  country  somewhere  to 
dinner. 

322 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

'Til  take  you  with  pleasure,"  he  returned,  "but  you 
know  it's  pouring." 

"I  don't  care.  I  want  to  get  out  of  Paris  for  a  few 
hours,  and  I  don't  care  whether  I  get  wet  or  not.  Couldn't 
we  have  dinner  at  one  of  those  little  restaurants  you  spoke 
of  the  other  night  ?  And,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  come  for 
you.  I'll  come  in  a  fiacre.  Will  you  have  the  car  at  the 
door,  for  of  course  I  can't  go  up " 

Janeways,  who  had  always  been  a  very  abstemious  man, 
rang  for  a  brandy-and-soda.  He  would  never  again  allow 
himself  to  forget  that  he  was  nearly  sixty-two  years  old. 
People  like  Fabricius  should  never  again  have  a  chance 
of  jeering  at  him  for  his  assumption  of  youth — but  he 
was  not  old  as  he  made  his  arrangements  by  telephone 
for  dining  at  a  little  restaurant  on  the  way  to  Fontaine- 
bleau.  He  was  a  man,  amongst  other  qualities,  of  ex- 
treme mental  delicacy.  He  wouldn't,  for  instance,  take  a 
woman  whom  he  liked  and  respected  to  dine  where  he 
had  formerly  taken  a  woman  whom  he  had  liked  but  had 
not  respected.  There  were,  scattered  about  the  world, 
some  dozens  of  spots,  village  inn  or  isolated  house,  each 
of  which  was  to  his  memory  a  half-forgotten  but  undese- 
crated  little  shrine.  Since  a  woman  he  had  once  loved  had 
died  in  Dresden,  he  had  never  set  foot  in  the  town;  and 
there  was  a  remote  cottage  in  Cornwall  where  he  did  go 
very  semi-occasionally  and  where  he  always  went  alone, 
and  whence  he  came  with  a  beautiful  look  of  reverence  on 
his  fine  face.  So  he  hesitated  for  some  time  before  decid- 
ing on  a  restaurant  for  Cuckoo. 

Les  Terrasses  was  a  delightful  place,  and  the  cook  was  a 
personal  friend  of  his,  but  to  Les  Terrasses  he  had  not 
very  long  ago  pilgrimaged  with  a  very  delightful  and  witty 
lady  to  whom  he  would  not  for  the  world  have  introduced 
the  little  Nicoleta.  So  Les  Terrasses  was  out  of  the 
question.  A  little  further  on  there  was  an  old  farmhouse 

323 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

where  the  woman  made  a  wonderful  omelette  in  a  wonder- 
ful old  kitchen,  but  the  last  time  he  had  been  there  some 
years  before  he  had  been  accompanied  by  a  poor  creature 
of  whose  all-too-lasting  affection  he  had  proved  miserably 
unworthy,  so  that  farm  must  remain  sacred  to  her. 
Presently,  however,  he  remembered  a  little  restaurant 
on  the  Fontainebleau  road  where  he  had  once  been  with 
a  party  that  had  neither  sanctified  nor  desecrated  it. 
Hither  he  would  take  Nicoleta.  He  ordered  his  car,  wrote 
one  or  two  notes,  and  sat  down  to  wait. 

Cuckoo,  despite  the  very  unusual  frame  of  mind  she 
was  in,  had  no  idea  of  precipitating  matters  by  talking 
about  them.  So  she  told  Marguerite  Lensky  that  she  was 
going  to  dine  with  her  aunt,  Lady  Fabricius,  at  Meurice's ; 
and  that  she  was  to  go  to  the  station  to  see  her  and  her 
son  off  for  the  South  afterwards. 

When  the  fiacre  stopped  at  the  big  white  house  in  the 
Avenue  de  Bois,  Janeways'  big  gray  touring  car,  with  its 
hood  up,  already  stood  there,  and  when  he  saw  her,  Jane- 
ways'  chauffeur  approached  the  window. 

"You  are  the  lady  who  has  come  for  Sir  Peregrine 
Janeways?  I  am  to  ring  the  lift-bell  and  he  will  come 
down  at  once " 

Cuckoo,  who  had  been  trembling  with  rage  and  desire 
for  revenge  for  hours,  felt  her  liking  for  Janeways  kindle 
into  something  more  vital  as  he  came  down  the  steps. 
He  looked  so  big,  so  sure  of  himself,  so  far  above  the 
miserable  jangle  of  nerves  that  made  George  Loxley  so 
difficult  to  live  with.  He  settled  her  in  the  car,  put  a 
hot-water  bottle  to  her  feet,  poked  a  red  leather  cushion 
behind  her,  got  in  himself,  and  off  they  started. 

Cuckoo  didn't  explain  why  she  had  telephoned  him,  nor 
make  any  of  the  usual  apologies,  for  the  reason  that  these 
things  didn't  seem  worth  while,  and  he  for  his  part  asked 
no  questions,  but  they  were  very  glad  to  be  together; 

324 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

each  was  to  the  other  an  antidote  to  a  miserable  poison ; 
and  each  liked  the  other  the  more  because  the  other  was 
so  eminently  likeable. 

There  was  a  blaze  of  color  in  Cuckoo's  irregular  little 
face  and  her  tear-washed  eyes  were  brilliant.  Janeways 
could  have  kissed  her  feet  in  gratitude  for  the  feeling  she 
roused  in  him. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "it  is  good  to  be  with  you." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  penetrating  expression.  "It 
is  good  to  be  with  «/ow,"  she  said.  "I  have  been  so  angry 
— so  angry,  and  I  knew  at  once  that  only  you  could  help 
me." 

"Tell  me — how  can  I  help  you  ?" 

"Only  just  by  being — you.  You  are  so  sure  and  so 
resolute  and  so  sincere." 

These  were  odd  characteristics  for  a  young  woman  to 
pick  out  to  praise  in  any  man  who  had  told  her  he  loved 
her.  The  choice  appealed  to  Janeways;  although  love 
in  its  various  manifestations  could  never  lose  its  charm 
for  him,  he  had  been  surfeited  at  last;  a  little  overfed 
with  expressions  both  of  uncontrollable  passion  and  the 
momentary,  delightful  sweetness  that  almost  invariably 
changes  into  insipidity.  This  little  thing  was  reasoning; 
she  was  making  definite  use  of  him  in  her  mental  need,  and 
this  for  some  reason  he  liked. 

The  big  car  ran  smoothly  along  through  the  rain  and 
Janeways,  though  he  did  not  forget  that  he  was  an  old 
man,  realized  that  only  outsiders — people  who  didn't 
know — could  doubt  his  wonderful  youth. 

They  dined,  despite  the  rain,  in  a  little  arbor  of  un- 
barked  logs,  looking  over  what  would  have  been  a  ditch 
anywhere  else,  but  which,  in  the  curious,  cultivated  atmo- 
sphere of  artificiality  that  prevails  in  establishments  of 
the  kind  in  France,  had  taken  on  the  charms  of  a  wild 
and  unfathomable  ravine. 

325 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

The  rain  had  stopped,  and  the  smell  of  fresh,  clean 
pine  needles  came  down  to  them  from  the  cluster  of  pine 
trees  round  and  under  which  the  garden  was  made.  The 
idea  of  dining  outside  at  the  end  of  November  pleased 
Cuckoo,  and  Janeways,  to  his  own  gratification,  had  ar- 
rived at  the  point  with  greater  suddenness  than  he  was 
used  to  but  quite  as  conclusively,  that  it  didn't  matter 
to  him  where  he  was  as  long  as  Nicoleta  was  there  too. 
Their  dinner  was  excellent  and  they  drank  champagne, 
which  Cuckoo  loved  as  a  debutante  loves  it,  not  only  in  a 
gustatory,  but  also  in  a  symbolic  way.  Champagne  to  her 
meant  high  festival  with  undeniable  dissipation  thrown 
in;  it  also  meant  forgetfulness  of  unpleasant,  and  a  rosy 
appreciation  of  pleasant,  things. 

At  last,  as  they  drank  their  coffee,  she  told  him  the 
story  of  her  day. 

"I've  had  a  letter,"  she  said,  "from  my  husband — he's 
in  Cyprus — ordering  me  to  go  back  to  England." 

"Well?  Why  shouldn't  you?  You'd  be  in  London,  of 
course  ?" 

"Should  I?  I'd  be,"  she  declared,  with  intense  bitter- 
ness, "buried  in  the  depths  of  the  country  with  two  old 
women  and  not  a  single  neighbor." 

"Why  does  your  husband  want  you  to  go  to  such  an 
impossible  place?  Doesn't  he  like  Marguerite  Lensky? 
Marguerite  is  a  thoroughly  good  sort  and  much  better 
than  many  who  criticize  her  manners." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that.  He  doesn't  know  her.  He  thinks 
it  isn't  right  that  a  young  woman  should  be  in  Paris  with- 
out her  husband." 

At  the  fierceness  of  the  sneer  in  her  voice,  Janeways 
looked  at  her  sharply. 

"Who  is  he?    What  is  he?     Tell  me  about  him." 

"He's  a  painter — he  paints  rather  badly.  He's — a 
very  nice  man,"  she  added,  with  unwilling,  but  very  effec- 

326 


'You  must  come,"  he  said,  "my  little  Nicoleta." 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

tive  justice.  "He's  furious  because  I  came  here.  Such 
&  letter !" 

Sir  Peregrine  naturally  felt  the  unholy  joy  that  any 
man  in  his  position  would  have  felt.  But  he,  too,  had  a 
sense  of  justice. 

"Why  did  he  go  to  Cyprus  and  leave, you?"  he  asked. 

Cuckoo  groaned.  "Oh,  to  earn  money.  I  made  him 
go."  She  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  little  arbor,  Janeways 
on  her  right.  To  all  intents  and  purposes  they  were  quite 
alone,  and  the  wind  in  the  pine  trees  made  a  soft,  sylvan 
accompaniment  to  their  voices. 

"You  see,"  Cuckoo  went  on,  as  Janeways  took  her  hand 
and  kissed  it,  "I  had  a  string  of  pearls  given  to  me  by  my 
uncle." 

"Who  was  your  uncle?"  he  interrupted. 

"He's  dead.  And  when  I  couldn't  stand  things  any 
more,  I  sold  the  pearls,  and  that  was  the  money  that 
brought  me  here.  George  says  that  it  was  an  outrageous 
thing  to  do;  but  the  pearls  were  mine,  and  came  from 
my  uncle,  and  I  don't  see  it  was  any  of  his  business." 

Janeways  didn't  answer,  for  the  reason  tHat  he  did 
think  it  her  husband's  business  if  his  wife,  without  telling 
him,  sold  her  jewels.  He  was  in  love  with  Cuckoo — he 
was  growing  more  in  love  with  her  every  moment,  but 
his  love  was  not  so  spontaneous  or  so  irresistible  as  to 
destroy,  as  it  might  have  done  a  few  years  before,  his 
sense  of  proportion  and  truth.  He  was,  although  he  only 
half  knew  it,  encouraging  himself  to  be  recklessly  in  love 
with  this  strange,  unbeautiful,  fascinating  little  woman. 
As  he  did  not  know  what  to  say  about  the  pearls,  he  played 
the  trump  card  of  lovers.  He  kissed  her,  and  then,  quite 
beautifully  and  naturally,  he  lost  his  head  and  made  vio- 
lent love  to  her.  He  meant  every  word  he  said,  just  as 
he  had  always  meant  every  word  he  said.  He  did  feel 
that  the  only  thing  to  be  done  was  for  her  to  come  away 

327 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

with  him;  he  was  sure — and  this  he  had  a  good  reason 
for — that  he  could  make  her  happy.  He  had  made  many 
and  many  a  woman  happy,  and  he  knew  just  how  to  do  it. 

Cuckoo  did  not  lose  her  head,  though  he  saw  that  she 
was  very  much  stirred  by  his  sincere  passion;  and  the 
fact  that  her  brain,  although  a  brain  of  no  particular 
weight  or  profundity,  was  so  well  balanced  added  vastly 
to  her  charm  for  him. 

"I  can't  decide  anything  to-night,"  she  said  at  last. 
"It's  all  so  horribly  sudden,  and  if  George  hadn't  been  so 
idiotic  about  the  pearls  I  probably  shouldn't  have  felt  like 
this  at  all." 

"Then  you  do  feel— like  this?" 

Cuckoo  looked  at  him  levelly. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  said,  with  her  marvelous  instinct 
for  knowing  how  to  manage  him,  "that  I  love  you  at  all, 
but  I  hate  my  husband,  and  you  are  good  and  kind  to  me, 
and — well,  every  woman  likes  to  be  loved." 

That  was  the  utmost  satisfaction  she  would  give  him, 
and  as  they  drove  back  she  sat  quite  quietly,  staring  out 
into  the  dark,  while  he  beside  her  had  utterly  forgotten 
his  preoccupation  about  his  age  and  his  youth;  his  heart 
was  thumping  in  his  big  chest;  he  was  as  much  in  love 
as  he  had  been  any  time  in  the  last  twenty  years. 

Cuckoo's  anger  with  George  was  so  sincere,  so  virulent, 
that  she  was  by  this  time  almost  too  tired  to  think,  and 
when  at  last  the  car  stopped  at  the  Countess's  apartment, 
she  sat  still  for  a  moment  while  Janeways  leaned  on  the 
side  of  the  car. 

"Trust  me,"  he  said.  "I'll  take  you  to  India,  Italy — 
anywhere  you  like.  I'll  be  very  good  to  you." 

She  leaned  towards  him,  her  exhausted  little  face  very 
white  in  the  arc-light  overhead. 

"It  all  seems  like  a  dream,"  she  said  slowly.  "Per- 
haps it  is  one.  I'll  have  to  think,  you  know.  I'm  so 

328 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

alone;  I  haven't  any  relations  except  a  couple  of  old 
aunts  who  can't  live  long,  so  my  life  is  my  own  as  far  as 
that's  concerned.  But — it  seems  a  dreadful  thing  to  do." 

It  was  raining  again  and  the  street  was,  fortunately, 
quite  deserted.  Janeways'  face  was  very  white.  He 
looked  supremely  handsome. 

"You  must  come,"  he  said,  "my  little  Nicoleta." 

Taking  off  his  hat,  he  leaned  towards  her. 

"Kiss  me." 

A  man  passed  them,  struggling  with  his  umbrella  for 
the  wind  had  come  up,  and  Janeways  started  back.  She 
had  kissed  him  and  he  was  very  happy ;  they  shook  hands 
and  she  went  in  to  the  brightly  lit  hall. 

The  Countess  was  out,  for  it  was  almost  eleven  o'clock, 
and  Cuckoo  went  straight  to  her  room.  She  was  almost 
asleep  when  a  knock  came  at  her  door  and  a  note  was 
brought  to  her. 

DEAR  CUCKOO  [the  note  said], 

Happening  to  pass  the  Countess  Lensky's  house  just  now,  it 
•was  my  misfortune  to  see  you  parting  from  that  old  scoundrel 
Janeways.  I  thought  last  night  that  something  was  up  and 
now  I  know.  It  is  no  business  of  mine,  but  someone  is  sure  to 
tell  Loxley,  so  this  is  just  to  give  you  a  friendly  warning.  The 
five  hundred  pounds  my  father  left  you  will  be  sent  to  your 
bank  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two. 

Yours  sincerely, 

HUBERT  FABRICIUS. 

Cuckoo  read  the  note  two  or  three  times,  and  then 
put  it  away  in  her  writing-case.  She  knew  Bertie  well 
enough  to  realize  that  although  he  might  mean  not  to 
tell  what  he  had  seen,  he  was  certain  at  some  time  or 
other  to  let  it  slip  out.  So  her  answer  to  Janeways  was 
pretty  well  decided  before  she  went  to  sleep. 

329 


PART  III 

Two  Years  and  a  Half  Pass 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

TARRING-PEVERELL  stood  on  a  long,  slanting 
stretch  of  ground  that,  spreading  between  the  up- 
lands and  the  dale,  was  sheltered  to  the  north  and 
east  by  abrupt  heights,  and  more  closely  wooded  round 
than  was  usual  in  that  part  of  Yorkshire. 

The  house  itself  looked  as  if  it  had  been  carried  up 
from  the  south  and  planted  there  in  the  moorland  as  an 
architectural  example  by  some  god  of  ornate  taste. 
Instead  of  being  like  its  neighbors,  a  sober  rectangular 
gray  stone  building,  it  was  an  almost  perfect  specimen  of 
the  Palladian. 

One  of  Janeways'  idiosyncrasies  being  never  to  allow 
anything  he  owned  to  get  out  of  repair  or  even  to  degen- 
erate into  superficial  shabbiness,  the  house  was  always 
dazzling  in  its  whiteness  and  shone  through  the  trees  rather 
like  a  huge  bride-cake.  There  were,  moreover,  very  large 
and  beautiful  gardens,  and  even  when  its  owner  stayed 
away  for  three  or  four  years  at  a  time  the  staff  of  garden- 
ers was  never  diminished. 

The  present  Peregrine  Janeways'  grandfather,  an 
enthusiastic  and  scientific  horticulturist,  had  spent  an 
incredible  sum  of  money  on  the  gardens,  and  the  park 
boasted  a  great  number  of  rare  trees,  both  foreign  and 
native.  This  old  Sir  Peregrine  had  also  caused  walls  to 
be  built,  some  of  them  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  high,  to  break 
the  onrush  of  the  keen  northern  winds.  At  the  foot  of 
what  was  known  as  the  Marble  Terrace,  an  expensive  ca- 
price of  the  Janeways  of  Charles  I's  day,  the  gardening 
Janeways  had  made  a  sunken  garden,  from  whose  mellow 

333 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

3epths  rose  on  all  sides  broad,  shallow  steps  of  tKe  same 
marble  as  the  Terrace.  Here  grew  the  famous  Tarring- 
Peverell  roses,  and  there  was  a  saying  in  the  countryside 
that  under  the  marble  steps  ran  a  cunning  series  of  hot 
pipes  that  tempered  the  air  always,  even  in  the  depths  of 
winter. 

In  the  center  of  the  sunken  garden  was  a  little  fountain 
with  a  very  beautiful  Cupid  who  stood  with  drooping 
wings,  bending  over  the  bubbling  water  as  if  about  to 
drink  from  it.  What  seemed  miles  of  herbaceous  borders 
stretched  in  all  directions  for  more  than  twenty  acres  of 
garden-land,  and  in  one  of  the  greenhouses  there  grew, 
in  a  deep  basin,  pink  lotus  flowers  from  the  Summer  Pal- 
ace near  Pekin. 

The  original  Janeways,  whose  story  the  present  man 
had  told  Cuckoo  Loxley  that  evening  in  Paris,  had  had 
a  shop  in  Cheapside,  so  the  story  went,  and  for  several 
generations  his  descendants  had  been  nothing  more  than 
clever  goldsmiths.  But  gradually  they  had  risen  in  the 
world  and  had  evolved  not  only  into  fine  artists  but,  what 
was  far  more  important  for  the  well-being  of  their  future 
garden  in  Yorkshire,  extremely  astute  business  men. 

Their  baronetcy  dated  almost  from  the  very  first  batch 
of  James  I.,  and  henceforth  they  were,  as  a  family,  im- 
portant, not  only  through  their  wealth  which  grew  without 
ceasing  and  which,  oddly  enough,  never  underwent  any 
marked  fluctuations  because  of  the  various  wars  in  which 
they  took  different  sides,  but  also  because  of  a  certain 
very  pronounced  though  indescribable  charm  which  they 
possessed,  almost  to  a  man.  They  made  great  marriages, 
they  made  enormously  wealthy  marriages,  and  whenever 
one  wished  to  do  so,  he  married  a  woman  of  no  birth  and 
of  no  money.  A  star  must  have  danced  when  the  first 
Janeways  was  born,  so  almost  unbrokenly  fortunate  had 
their  line  been.  But  now  their  line  was  on  the  point  of 

334 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

extinction,  and  two  people  who,  one  evening  in  June,  stood 
outside  the  drawing-room  window  on  the  top  of  the  first 
flight  of  marble  steps  of  which  the  beautiful  Italian  Ter- 
race was  composed,  were  thinking  of  this  unfortunate  fact. 
It  was  a  beautiful  evening  and  the  sun  was  still  high  in  the 
heavens,  so  that  the  old  house  almost  glittered  against 
its  background  of  trees.  Far  down  below  in  the  valley, 
the  little  river  glittered  back  at  it,  and  a  church-bell  was 
ringing  half  a  mile  or  so  away. 

Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  Flues,  both  arrayed  in  un- 
usual splendor,  stood  looking  off  to  the  westward,  for 
over  there  towards  the  setting  sun  lay  Roseroofs,  and 
the  two  old  ladies,  unused  to  being  from  home,  were  a 
little  homesick,  though  neither  would  for  worlds  have 
said  so  to  the  other. 

"It  is  all  very  splendid,  Flora,"  Miss  Effie  said,  her 
eyes  resting  on  a  little  statue  of  a  running  girl,  who, 
to  her,  seemed  insufficiently  clothed.  "I've  never  seen 
such  a  beautiful  house." 

Miss  Flora  nodded.  "Aye,  Effie.  It  would  be  a  great 
pity  if  the  name  died  out." 

Miss  Effie  thought  Miss  Flora  rather  indelicate  to  make 
such  a  speech  under  the  circumstances. 

"It's  odd,"  Miss  Flora  went  on,  "that  he  never  had 
any  children,  considering  that  he  has  been  married  twice 
before." 

They  walked  slowly  along,  past  the  drawing-room 
windows,  which  were  open  and  in  which  lace  curtains 
of  a  delicacy  and  softness  unequaled  by  any  they  had 
ever  seen  swung  gently  in  the  breeze,  and  went  down 
the  steps  to  the  side  towards  the  sunken  garden.  There 
was  a  vastness  about  Tarring-Peverell  in  which  the  two 
little  old  ladies  felt  a  little  lost,  perhaps  a  little  chilly. 
They  were  used  to  less  wide  spaces,  to  protective  corners, 
and  the  sunny  pit  that  was  the  sunken  garden  seemed  to 

335 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

offer  them,  and  to  hold  them  in,  a  kind  of  warm  embrace. 

They  sat  down  on  the  steps  opposite  those  by  which 
they  had  come,  their  backs  to  the  West,  and  went  on 
with  their  talk. 

"I'm  glad  Lady  Pelter's  here,  and  Rachel,"  Miss  Effie 
remarked,  "it  takes  the  edge  off  somehow." 

"Yes,  it  does,"  agreed  Miss  Flora.  "The  world  is 
changed  since  our  day,  Effie.  No  one  seems  to  mind  any- 
thing any  more." 

They  looked  mournfully  at  each  other,  their  frosty 
reserve  melting  a  little  towards  each  other  in  their  un- 
avowed  isolation. 

Miss  Flora  and  Miss  Effie  had  aged  considerably  in 
the  two  years  and  a  half  that  had  passed  since  Cuckoo's 
last  visit  to  Roseroofs.  Anyone  who  had  thought  it  im- 
possible at  that  time  for  Miss  Flora  to  grow  thinner 
would  have  been  obliged  to  recant  had  he  seen  her  that 
evening  in  the  rose-garden  in  a  delicate  lavender  frock 
which  had  been  made  for  her  and  was  not  a  Tad  (Lady 
Janeways  did  not  believe  in  Tads),  and  Miss  Flora's  deep- 
violet  eyes  looked  almost  black  in  the  ethereal  whiteness 
of  her  face. 

Miss  Effie  probably  weighed  to  an  ounce  what  she  had 
weighed  then.  She  had,  or  she  looked  as  if  she  had,  hard- 
ened and  solidified  by  some  subtle  process  of  petrifac- 
tion. 

Miss  Flora's  long  white  hands  fluttered  more  than  ever, 
and  to  this  delicate  demonstration  was  added  the  more 
menacing  one  of  a  slight  tremulousness  of  the  head. 

They  had  been  at  Tarring-Peverell  for  something  over 
a  week,  and  they  wanted,  they  wanted  with  all  the 
strength  of  their  old  hearts,  to  go  home. 

"Cuckoo  is  most  kind,  isn't  she?"  Miss  Effie  said  after 
a  while. 

"She's  a  delightful  hostess,"  agreed  Miss  Flora,  "and 

336 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Peregrine  is  perfection.  We  ought  to  be  very  thankful, 
Effie,  that  things  have  turned  out  so  well." 

Miss  Effie  did  not  answer.  It  was  literally  an  impos- 
sibility for  these  two  old  sisters,  living  as  they  did  always 
in  the  closest  intimacy,  to  discuss  vital  and  intimate 
things.  Other  people,  however,  were  less  reserved,  and 
presently  a  handsome,  middle-aged  woman  in  a  flowing 
rose  colored  tea-gown  came  down  the  steps  towards  them, 
a  very  short-skirted,  knock-kneed  little  girl  on  either 
side  of  her. 

This  was  Lady  Pelter  and  her  grandchildren,  Yvette 
and  Prunella  Jackson. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!"  Lady  Pelter  cried.  "The  little 
girls  and  I  are  taking  a  walk,  and  we  thought  we  heard 
voices,  didn't  we,  my  loves?  Go  away  and  play  now," 
she  added,  in  quite  a  different  voice. 

Then  she  sat  down  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  It  was  a 
very  warm  evening  and  she  was  dressed  for  dinner  in 
the  delightful  and  comfortable  way  that  some  middle- 
aged  ladies  do  dress  for  dinner,  but  Miss  Effie  and  Miss 
Flora  considered  the  display  of  her  still  beautiful  arms 
out  of  place  in  a  garden,  and  they  regarded  with  horror 
the  careful  make-up  of  her  charming  face.  Lady  Pelter 
had  always  been  of  the  "poor  little  Blanche"  type.  She 
had  coaxed  and  petted  her  way  through  life,  taking  for 
granted  all  the  good  things  that  had  been  given  her;  sin- 
cerely and  vociferously  amazed  when  anything  bad  fell 
to  her  share.  She  had  disliked  her  husband  intensely,  and 
not  without  reason.  Her  sons  she  was  fond  of,  particu- 
larly Angus,  who,  when  he  had  come  of  age,  celebrated 
his  majority  by  making  his  mother  a  very  good  allowance; 
and  she  was  fond  in  her  way  of  Rosamund — Rosamund 
the  successful,  Rosamund  the  rich,  Rosamund  the  bril- 
liantly and  flatteringly  happy.  Rachel,  since  her  mar- 
riage, her  mother  had  not  liked  much.  Her  daughter's 

337 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

very  name  now  offended  her,  and  it  hurt  her  to  feel  that 
not  only  Rachel  herself,  but  other  people,  wondered  that 
she — Rachel's  mother — did  not  share  her  good  things  with 
the  Jacksons.  Lady  Pelter  was  one  of  those  women  who, 
with  perfect  good  faith,  can  lament  their  poverty  while 
wearing  round  their  necks  thousands  of  pounds'  worth 
of  jewels  that  nothing  prevents  their  selling  at  any  mo- 
ment. 

"I  have  come  out  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that  I  have 
a  little  scheme.  Dear  Peregrine  has,  I  know,  just  bought 
some  emeralds  for  Nicoleta.  I  believe  he  has  given  them 
to  her  this  afternoon.  Thinking  about  them  has  re- 
minded me  that  I  don't  believe  you  have  ever  seen  the 
most  famous  of  the  Janeways  jewels — the  Bag  of  Saf- 
fron— have  you?" 

The  old  ladies  shook  their  heads. 

"No.  We  have  heard  of  it,  of  course,"  Miss  Flora 
said,  "but  we've  never  seen  it." 

"I  have — once,"  Lady  Pelter  went  on,  finishing  her 
cigarette  and  lighting  another,  "and  it's  rather  interest- 
ing. I've  never  seen  Nicoleta  wear  it.  Dear  me!  It's 
hard  to  call  her  Nicoleta,  but  he  won't  have  her  called 
Nicky." 

"We  shall  always  call  her  Cuckoo,  as  her  mother  did," 
put  in  Miss  Effie  with  some  acerbity. 

"Oh,  you — you  could  call  her  Messalina  if  you  liked. 
He  wouldn't  care.  Everybody  knows  that  you  two  can 
do  nothing  wrong." 

Miss  Flora  fluttered. 

"No,"  she  repeated  nervously,  to  change  the  subject, 
"we've  never  seen  the  Bag  of  Saffron." 

"Well,  I'll  ask  him  to-night  to  show  it  to  us.  I  wonder 
he  hasn't  given  it  to  Nicky  already.  Perhaps,"  she 
added,  with  the  knowing  air  that  was  so  extremely  of- 
fensive to  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora,  "he's  waiting  for 

338 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  great  occasion."  As  neither  of  them  spoke,  she  re- 
sumed, her  shallow  blue  eyes  hardening,  "Although  it 
doesn't  look  very  much  as  if  such  an  occasion  were  going 
to  arise.  It's  two  years  and  a  half  now " 

If  the  "occasion"  was  not  likely  to  arise,  Miss  Effie 
and  Miss  Flora  rose  at  that  very  moment. 

"I  think  we'll  go  back  to  the  house,"  Miss  EfBe  said 
severely. 

Lady  Pelter  gave  a  lazy  little  laugh.  "I'm  sorry," 
she  said,  "I  really  am;  I  didn't  mean  to  shock  you. 
After  all,  everybody  knows,  and  it  always  seems  to  me 
that  anything  that  can  be  done  can  be  talked  about " 

The  two  old  ladies  stood  by  the  little  Cupid,  gazing 
down  at  him.  At  last  Miss  Flora  raised  her  eyes  and, 
looking  between  the  wings,  met  Lady  Pelter's  gaze. 

"My  sister  and  I  are  very  old-fashioned,  Lady  Pelter," 
she  said.  "It  will  always  be  a  great  grief  to  us  that 
our  niece  went  through  that  dreadful  experience,  and 
we  prefer  not  to  think  of  it." 

Lady  Pelter,  who  was  really  a  perfectly  good-natured 
woman,  apologized  once  more. 

"I  am  sorry,  Miss  Flora,"  she  said,  "and  I  understand. 
I  should  have  hated  it  if  it  had  been  one  of  my  girls. 
But  then,  you  see,  Peregrine  is  so  wonderful,  no  one 
ever  minds  anything  he  does — no  one  ever  has,  and  Nicky, 
being  his,  she  has  been  forgiven  as  well.  Granted  that 
they  had  to  run  away  with  each  other,  surely  he  managed 
everything  in  the  most  beautiful  way — staying  in  the 
East  not  only  until  it  was  all  over,  but  not  coming  back 
till  they'd  been  married  over  a  year.  It  was  clever !  And 
then,  think  of  the  beautiful  things  he  gives  her,  and  those 
emeralds  to-day.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  really  only 
think  of  the  present.  I'd  put  that  other  time  out  of  my 
head.  They  have  been  married  a  year  and  a  half,  and  he 
treats  her  like  a  queen,  and  everybody's  coming  round. 

339 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

I  was  told  a  certain  very  great  person  has  decided  to  ac- 
cept her."  At  the  unfortunate  word  "accept"  Miss  Flora 
blushed  again  and  gave  a  little  spring  in  her  anguish. 
Miss  Effie  slipped  her  arm  into  her  sister's. 

"I  am  sure  you  mean  very  kindly,  Lady  Pelter,"  she 
said  in  her  deepest,  gruffest  voice,  "but  please  don't 
say  any  more.  My  sister  and  I  are  doing  our  best  to 
take  what  you  think  such  a  trifle,  in  the  wisest  way.  Sir 
Peregrine  is  most  kind  to  us,  and,  as  you  say,  Cuckoo 
has  a  great  many  jewels.  In  our  youth  we  were  taught 
that  there  was  one  jewel  of  far  greater  importance  than 
any  of  these,  and  we  can't  help  regretting  that  that  one 
has  gone  from  her  for  ever." 

Lady  Pelter  sat  and  smoked  as  the  two  old  ladies 
went  slowly  up  the  steps,  their  pretty  frocks  trailing 
behind  them,  their  little  backs  narrower  than  of  old  and 
a  little  bent. 

"Poor  old  things,"  she  thought  with  compassion.  "I 
do  really  believe  they  would  rather  have  Nicky  starving 
in  a  garret  with  that  poisonous  George  Loxley  than  enjoy- 
ing all  this." 

The  two  little  Jackson  girls,  who  had  run  away  obe- 
diently to  play  when  ordered  to  do  so  by  their  somewhat 
unsatisfactory  grandmother,  came  running  back  to  her 
with  their  hands  full  of  flowers,  and  as  she  had,  a  few 
minutes  before,  heard  the  first  gong  go  for  dinner,  she 
knew  that  some  of  the  guests  at  least  would  be  downstairs 
by  the  time  she  reached  the  house.  So,  one  of  her  beauti- 
ful hands  on  each  of  the  curly  heads,  she  marched  the 
little  creatures  up  the  steps  and  slowly  along  the  terrace, 
making,  she  knew,  a  very  effective  picture  in  the  westering 
light. 

There  were  a  good  many  people  in  the  house-party, 
but  Lady  Pelter  was  glad  when  she  saw  that  the  eyes 
that  looked  appreciatively  at  her  little  group  as  it 

340 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

reached  the  house  were  the  eyes  of  her  host  himself.  Jane- 
ways  stood  at  the  door,  two  or  three  dogs  round  him, 
looking  down  the  dale  with  a  pair  of  field-glasses. 

"Those  people  are  going  to  be  late  for  dinner,"  he 
said.  "My  dear  Blanche,  what  a  delightful-looking  crea- 
ture you  are!" 

"So  are  you,  Pelly — and  this  place  is  very  becoming 
to  you.  Is  Nicoleta  down  yet?" 

"No.  She  went  up  late.  She's  been  playing  tennis 
with  Taylor." 

Together  they  went  into  the  broad  hall,  and  passing 
through  it  came  out  on  the  Terrace,  to  the  left  of  which 
stretched  back  from  the  main  body  of  the  house  the 
dining-room,  which  was  the  only  remains  of  the  original 
Tudor  building,  torn  down  by  the  disciple  of  Inigo  Jones 
who  had  built  the  present  house.  Here  were  long  chairs, 
and  small  tables  covered  with  books  and  magazines 
and  papers,  and  on  the  steps  were  piled  cushions  of  blue 
and  green  peacock  colors.  The  curtains  on  this  side  of 
the  house  were  also  of  heavy  green  and  blue  brocade,  for 
this  was  the  famous  Peacock  Terrace,  and  on  the  grass 
beyond  and  down  the  steps  that  in  their  turn  led  to  the 
Italian  garden,  minced  and  ambled  splendid  blue  and  green 
birds  and  their  rarer  brethren  the  milk-white  peacocks 
that  had  graced  Tarring-Peverell  ever  since  Charles  II.'s 
time.  The  fine  birds  made  a  beautiful  pattern  of  weaving 
light  in  their  slow  and  pompous  perambulations  on  the 
white  marble  or  the  green  grass.  Lady  Pelter  and  Jane- 
ways  came  down. 

"Have  you  given  Nicoleta  the  emeralds?"  she  asked 
curiously. 

"I  have." 

"Does  she  like  them?" 

"She  says  she  does." 

At  that  moment  Lady  Janeways  joined  them.     She 

34-1 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

wore  white  and  round  her  neck  hung  the  gift — a  very 
beautiful  necklace.  She  had  grown  a  little  since  the 
Paris  days,  and  walked  with  a  new  air  of  assurance  that 
was  almost  hardihood.  Her  beautifully  dressed  head  was 
held  markedly  high,  and  her  eyes,  in  which  poor  Miss 
Effie  and  Miss  Flora  had  in  vain  looked  for  signs  of  re- 
pentance or  shame,  gazed  out  on  the  world  from  under 
insolently  drooped  eyelids. 

"Haven't  those  people  got  back?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"No." 

"Ridiculous!  I  told  Kathleen  I'd  have  no  nonsense 
about  a  breakdown,  and  Captain  Ferrier  heard  me  say  it. 
Absurd  creatures  they  are!  I  wish  they'd  hurry  up  and 
marry.  I  can  hardly  bear  it." 

"Perhaps  they've  run  away,"  suggested  Lady  Pelter, 
with  her  genuine  blunder-headedness. 

Cuckoo  looked  at  her  coldly. 

"Where  are  the  children?"  she  asked. 

"Good  gracious !  /  don't  know.  I  forgot  all  about 
them.  Pelly,  did  you  see  where  they  went?" 

At  that  minute  the  two  little  girls  appeared,  dragged 
unmercifully  along  by  their  nurse.  They  kissed  their 
grandmother  good-night  and  their  Auntie  Nicoleta  and 
then,  with  one  accord,  flew  at  their  Uncle  Peregrine,  and 
tried  to  climb  up  his  legs. 

"Carry  us  upstairs,  Uncle  Pelly.  You  said  you 
would!" 

Janeways  took  one  on  each  shoulder  and  trotted  off 
into  the  great  hall  with  them,  laughing  as  loudly  as  they, 
in  evident  enjoyment. 

"What  a  great  boy  he  is!"  Lady  Pelter  observed,  as 
Cuckoo  watched  her  husband  disappear,  her  eyes  inscrut- 
able. "He's  very  fond  of  children,  isn't  he?" 

Cuckoo  looked  at  her,  her  expression  unchanged.  Then 
she  walked  slowly  away  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

LADY  PELTER'S  plan  of  asking  Janeways  to  ex- 
hibit the  Bag  of  Saffron  did  not  come  off  that  night. 
But  two  or  three  days  later,  when  the  very  large 
house-party  had  dwindled  to  a  small  and  more  or  less  in- 
timate one,  she  remembered  her  idea  and  proceeded  to 
attempt  to  crystallize  it.    It  was  at  lunch  that  she  made 
the  proposal. 

"Peregrine,"  she  said  suddenly,  "I've  just  thought  of 
something.  Do  you  know  that  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora 
have  never  seen  the  Bag  of  Saffron?  Do  get  it  out  and 
show  it  to  us." 

It  was  a  rainy  day,  and  everyone  had  been  wondering 
how  they  could  pass  the  afternoon,  so  that  there  was  some 
excuse  for  Lady  Pelter's  suggestion.  Janeways  smiled. 

"It  isn't  worth  looking  at,"  he  said.  "Just  an  ugly 
little  gold  bag  with  a  few  dry  leaves  in  it ;  even  the  leaves 
are  chiefly  dust  by  this  time.  I  think  you  have  not  been 
in  the  library,  Blanche — the  real  library?  That  would 
be  a  good  way  to  spend  this  rainy  afternoon." 

"Yes,  it  would  be  delightful,  but  do  let's  see  the  Bag 
of  Saffron.  I  have  seen  it,  you  know,  years  and  years 
ago." 

He  looked  at  her  inquiringly.    "Have  you?" 

"Yes.  When  I  was  a  very  young  girl  your  mother 
wore  it,  one  evening  when  she  dined  at  our  house,  on  pur- 
pose to  show  it  to  my  mother.  I  can  distinctly  remember 
her,  and  that  her  frock  was  of  dark  blue  silk,  and  her 
hair  was  parted  in  the  middle." 

Janeways  nodded:  "Yes,  she  was  always  very  fond  of 

343 


Lady  Blois.  I  still  have  somewhere  a  miniature  of  Lady 
Blois  that  she  gave  my  mother.  By  the  way,"  he  went 
on,  with  a  deliberateness  that  took  from  his  manner  any 
hint  of  purposely  changing  the  subject,  "how  is  that  little 
boy,  Blois's  grandson?  Is  he  better?" 

Cuckoo,  from  her  end  of  the  table,  watched  the  little 
scene  with  visible  amusement  of  a  not  very  genial  kind, 
and  the  young  man  on  her  left,  a  beautiful  youth  with  an 
almost  Greek  face  and  rather  long  curly  hair,  asked  for 
an  explanation. 

"What  on  earth-  is  the  Bag  of  Saffron?"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"You've  heard.     It's  an  ugly  little  old  family  jewel." 

"What's  it  like?"  he  asked. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  pause,  and  everyone  heard 
Cuckoo's  reply. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I've  never  seen  the  Bag  of 
Saffron." 

"Good  gracious,  Nicky!"  burst  out  Rachel  Jackson, 
"haven't  you  seen  it?  I  thought  you  once  said  you  saw 
it  in  some  shop." 

Luncheon  was  over,  and  Cuckoo  gave  the  signal  for 
rising. 

"I  saw  it  years  ago,  but  only  by  accident,"  she  an- 
swered quietly,  "so  I  really  have  no  right  to  any  knowl- 
edge of  it." 

That  afternoon  Cuckoo  took  her  Aunt  Effie  for  a  long 
drive  in  her  own  little  Victoria.  There  were  several  motor- 
cars at  Tarring-Peverell,  but  Lady  Janeways  preferred 
to  machinery,  however  perfect  and  noiseless  it  might  be, 
the  pleasant  patter  of  horses'  hoofs  and  the  easy  swing 
of  a  well-made  carriage.  They  drove  several  miles  along 
the  highroad  towards  the  pass  leading  to  Cotherdale, 
and  when  they  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  pass  Cuckoo 
said: 

344 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Would  you  like  to  drive  up  the  Pass  to  the  Cross, 
Aunt  Effie,  and  look  up  the  dale  ?" 

Miss  Effie,  who  sat  very  erect  in  her  place,  hesitated 
for  a  moment. 

"Yes,  Cuckoo — I  should.  I  haven't  been  so  long  away 
from  home  since  your  father  first  brought  you  to  us,  and 
I'd  rather  like  to  have  a  glimpse  of  our  own  moors." 

The  horses  drew  the  little  carriage  up  the  steep  road 
with  no  apparent  effort,  and  in  about  an  hour's  time  the 
two  ladies  got  out  and  walked  to  a  little  natural  plat- 
form above  the  road  where  an  old  stone  cross  marked  some 
long-forgotten  accident,  and  stood  there  looking  round 
the  shoulder  of  a  hill  into  Cotherdale.  They  were  very 
far  from  Warcop,  but  they  could  just  see  it  lying  like  a 
handful  of  children's  toys,  the  river  twisting  through  it, 
and  off  to  the  left  they  could  see  the  Edge  against  the 
sky,  and  just  beyond  their  eyeshot  they  knew  Roseroofs 
lay. 

"You  are  not  getting  tired  of  staying  with  me,  are 
you?"  Cuckoo  asked  gently,  as  the  old  woman  walked 
away  from  her  and  stood  looking  up  the  dale. 

"I  like  being  with  you,  Cuckoo.  You  are  all  we've 
got,  you  know,  and  Peregrine  is  most  kind,  but — perhaps 
we  are  both  a  little  too  old  for  parties."  And  Cuckoo 
knew. 

On  the  way  home  she  asked  her  aunt  for  news  of 
Cotherdale,  and  Miss  Effie,  who  felt  vaguely  encouraged 
by  her  attitude  to  believe  that  the  time  of  their  banish- 
ment might  be  shortened,  talked  of  all  the  small  events  of 
which  she  learnt  in  Esther  Oughtenshaw's  letters.  Benjie 
had  broken  his  leg ;  Esther  suspected  Nellie,  the  maid,  of 
a  suitor ;  Judge  Capel's  heir  had  turned  out  to  be  charm- 
ing and  had  a  most  beautiful  little  boy ;  Maggie  Watlass 
of  the  Mill  had  had  a  stroke,  so  her  daughter,  who  was 
in  service  in  Cumberland,  would  have  to  come  back  and 

345 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

look  after  her,  and  Joss  Skelton  had  married  again,  the 
old  fool,  a  girl  from  York  twenty  times  younger  than  he. 

Cuckoo  had  not  her  father's  gift  of  being  curious  about 
the  affairs  of  everybody  she  met,  but  she  had  known  these 
people  since  her  childhood,  and  she  was  more  interested 
in  them  than  Aunt  Effie  would  have  expected. 

"Tell  me  about  the  Vicar,"  she  asked  at  length.  "How 
has  he  turned  out?" 

"We  don't  like  him.  He  despises  us  all  as  dull,  and 
naturally  he  isn't  popular.  Besides  he  is  very  stand-offish 
with  the  poor  people;  he  refused  to  go  out  at  night 
to  see  Kate  Skelton,  when  she  was  dying,  because  he  had 
a  cold.  A  cold  indeed!"  finished  Miss  Effie,  with  a  sniff 
of  wrath. 

Cuckoo  laughed  softly.  "I  knew,"  she  said,  "he  was 
going  to  be  a  failure." 

"How  could  you  tell?" 

"Aunt  Flora  knew." 

"My  dear  Cuckoo — your  Aunt  Flora  is  the  best  woman 
in  the  world,  but  she  has  as  much  judgment  about  people 
as  a  cat  has  about  pockets." 

Cuckoo  said  nothing,  but  smiled  to  herself.  "My 
father,"  she  went  on  presently,  "once  told  me  that  Aunt 
Flora  was  a  very  wise  woman." 

Miss  Effie  sat  forward  suddenly.  "Did  he?"  she  asked 
indignantly,  "then  he  had  no  business  to  say  it,  for  he 
knew  perfectly  well  it  wasn't  true.  /  have  heard  him  say 
as  much." 

"From  all  I  can  gather  about  my  father,  he  must  have 
been  a  man  of  chameleon  viewpoints.  I'm  afraid  if  he 
were  alive  now  I  shouldn't  put  much  trust  in  his  word." 

Miss  Effie's  grim  face  saddened.  "Never  say  that  to 
your  Aunt  Flora,  my  dear,"  she  said. 

It  was  very  pleasant  rolling  along  in  the  comfortable 
carriage  behind  the  strong,  well-matched  horses,  and 

346 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo,  leaning  back,  consciously  exercised  to  the  full 
her  sense  of  enjoyment.  It  had  become  a  habit  with  her 
of  late  to  compare  her  present  with  her  past,  and  she 
thought  how  much  more  comfortable,  how  much  happier 
she  was  now  than  she  had  been  three  years  ago,  bumbling 
along  the  King's  Road  in  a  crowded,  bad-smelling  bus. 
After  a  while  her  thoughts  came  back  to  her  companion. 

"Aunt  Effie,"  she  said,  "I  believe  you  have  always 
thought  that  Aunt  Flora  cared  for  my  poor  father?" 

Miss  Effie  frowned  fiercely.  "I  have  never  said  such  a 
thing,"  she  declared;  "you've  no  right  to  say  that  I 
have." 

"I  didn't  say  you  said  it.  I  was  only  saying  that  I 
thought  you  thought  it." 

"Did  you!  Of  course,  you  being  at  the  time  of  your 
father's  death  nine  years  old,  your  opinion  most  naturally 
would  be  of  greater  weight  than  mine,"  returned  her 
aunt.  "However,  neither  you  nor  I  have  any  right  to 
pry  into  my  sister's  secrets " 

"I  don't  mean  to  pry,"  Cuckoo  said  gently. 

Her  aunt  had  noticed  that,  however  reserved  and 
haughty  her  manner  was  to  other  people  since  her  return 
to  London  six  months  before,  she  was  to  her  aunts  more 
gentle,  more  deferential,  than  she  had  ever  been.  Miss 
Effie  relented. 

"I'm  sure  you  didn't  mean  to,"  she  returned,  "and 
I've  always  been  grieved  and  sorry  for  many  things  about 
your  father,  but  I  will  say  one  thing  for  him:  whatever 
his  faults  might  have  been,  if  Flora  ever  did  care  for  him, 
it  was  by  no  wish  of  his,  and  I  am  sure  he  never  knew." 

"You  both  knew  Peregrine,  too,  when  he  was  young, 
didn't  you?"  Cuckoo  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Miss  Effie  answered  briskly;  "when  he  was 
quite  young,  just  after  his  mother's  death,  he  often  came 
to  Tarring-Peverell,  and  that  was  before  the  railway  was 

347 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

built  to  Redcastle,  so  he  came  by  way  of  Middleton  and 
used  to  stop  the  night  at  the  'Grouse.'  We  often  saw  him ; 
he  was  very  fond  of  our  mother.  Ah,  my  dear,  he  was  a 
beautiful  young  man.  I've  traveled,  you  know,  but  even 
in  Paris  I  never  saw  anyone  so  splendid." 

At  this  odd  confusion  of  ideas  Cuckoo  did  not  smile; 
Aunt  Effie's  innocent  boasting  rather  touched  her  nowa- 
days. 

"I  remember  once,"  Miss  Effie  went  on,  "we  went  to 
a  ball  at  Middleton.  Dear  mama  took  us.  And  Pelly  was 
there  with  some  young  officers,  and  he  danced  half  the 
night  with  Flora.  She  was  very  pretty,  and  she  had  a 
beautiful  frock — pale  green,  with  little  flounces  all  the 
way  up,  and  a  little  tucker  threaded  with  black  velvet 
ribbon." 

Miss  Effie  gave  a  deep  sigh.  She  had  never  enjoyed 
herself  at  the  few  balls  to  which  she  had  been,  but 
she  remembered  Miss  Flora's  triumph  with  simple 
pride. 

Suddenly  Cuckoo  laid  her  hand  on  the  old  woman's. 

"Listen,  Aunt  Effie,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  tell  you 
something  I  have  never  said  before,  and  I  shall  never  say 
it  again,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  forget:  I  was  sorry 
when  you  and  Aunt  Flora  were  hurt  by  what  I  did,  and 
I  was  grateful  when  you  forgave  me " 

Miss  Effie  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  that  she  had  ever  heard  Cuckoo  make  an 
apology,  and,  what  was  more,  Cuckoo's  small,  fathomless 
eyes  were  wet  as  she  spoke. 

"There,  there,"  the  old  lady  answered.  "Thank  you, 
my  dear ;  I'm  glad  you  said  that.  It  was  a  shock  to  us, 
of  course.  We  were  so  sorry  for  poor — I  mean — I  mean 
to  say " 

"You  mean  to  say  you  were  sorry  for  George  ?"  Cuckoo 
interrupted.  "Then  I'll  tell  you  something  else.  George 

348 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

and  I  were  dreadfully  unhappy,  Aunt  Effie.  It  was  all  a 
mistake;  we  never  suited  each  other  at  all." 

"But  you  were  so  happy  that  first  summer  at  Rose- 
roofs,"  protested  the  old  woman,  bewildered  as  to  whether 
she  should  feel  glad  or  sorry.  "Don't  you  remember?" 

"I  do  remember,"  Cuckoo  said  in  a  hard  voice,  "but  it 
didn't  last.  I  suppose  it  was  just  that  neither  of  us  was 
fine  enough  to  put  up  with  all  the  horrid  little  things  that 
poor  people  have  to  put  up  with." 

"Perhaps  it  was  only  that  you  were  too  young,"  Miss 
Effie  suggested.  "George  was  a  dear,  good  boy ;  as  sweet- 
tempered  a  boy  as  I  ever  knew.  Perhaps  if  you  had  tried 

a  little  more,  Cuckoo "  She  broke  off  suddenly. 

"But  goodness  gracious  me,  what  am  I  saying?  Dear 
Peregrine  is  so  good  and  so  fond  of  you,  and  you  are  so 
happy!  By  the  way,  Cuckoo,  did  you  know  George  was 
ill?" 

"No." 

"Yes.  Flora  had  a  letter  yesterday  from  old  Mary  at 
Clavers.  He's  had  pneumonia  and  been  very  bad." 

"I'm  sorry.  Aunt  Effie,  have  you  ever  seen  him — 
since  ?" 

Miss  Effie  shook  her  head.  "No,  he's  not  been  back 
to  the  Dale.  It's  all  very  dreadful,  my  dear,  and  I  can't 
think  it  right.  I  do  hope  he's  happy." 

"So  do  I,"  Cuckoo  said.  "Poor  George!  It  was  my 
fault  as  well  as  his." 

Miss  Effie  suggested  cheerfully  that  George  might 
marry,  and  Cuckoo  agreed  that  such  a  denouement  would 
be  very  desirable. 

That  evening  most  of  the  men  played  billiards,  so  that 
in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  there  sat  only  six  or 
seven  people ;  the  two  Janeways,  Lady  Pelter,  Mantepop, 
who  had  turned  up  from  Paris  full  of  news  of  that  delight- 
ful city,  the  Greek-looking  youth,  whose  name  was  Adrian 

349 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Taylor,  and  who  was  never  very  far  away  from  Cuckoo, 
and  the  two  Misses  Plues.  Taylor  was  playing  the  piano ; 
he  played  with  charm,  though  in  a  scrappy,  unsatisfying 
way,  and  the  others  sat  near  the  fire,  as  it  was  a  chilly 
evening,  listening  to  him.  Janeways,  sitting  in  his  usual 
chair,  a  kind  of  throne  of  crimson  brocade,  with  heavily- 
carved,  gilded  legs  and  arms,  was  reading,  as  usual  with 
him  in  the  evening.  The  light  from  the  shaded  lamp  fell 
on  his  head,  and  his  serene,  kind,  high-bred  face  might 
almost  have  been  the  face  of  a  priest;  a  priest  of  some 
austere  and  noble  religion.  There  was  in  it  no  sign  of  the 
stormy  and  diversified  life  he  had  led;  there  was  no  sel- 
fishness in  it,  and  not  a  hint  of  coarseness. 

Diamantopoulos,  who  was  talking  to  Lady  Pelter, 
studied  him  for  a  while. 

"Wonderful,  Janeways,  is  he  not?"  the  little  old  Greek 
gentleman  asked.  Lady  Pelter  understood  at  once. 

"Amazing,"  she  said.  "He  is  well  named  the  Magni- 
ficent. There  he  sits  as  deep  in  his  book  as  if  we  were 
all  dead  and  stuffed,  instead  of  fidgeting  about  as  we  all 
do  fidget,  we  moderns " 

Mantepop  nodded. 

"Yes,  that's  just  it — we  moderns.  He  is  not  a  modern. 
He's  a  man  of  the  Mediaevo.  He  ought  to  have  a  Court, 
like  one  of  the  old  dukes  in  Italy.  Have  you  ever,"  he 
asked  meditatively,  "seen  him  in  a  temper?" 

Lady  Pelter  shook  her  head  with  a  mock  shudder.  "No, 
and  I  don't  want  to,  thank  you." 

"I  have,  but  I  won't  tell  you  about  it.  He  has  changed 
a  little,"  his  friend  went  on.  "I  can't  exactly  describe 
the  change,  but  it  is  there.  I  hadn't  seen  him  since — 
since  the  marriage.  We  met  in  Hawaii " 

Lady  Pelter  lowered  her  voice  as  Taylor  ceased  playing. 

"They  were  married  in  Tokio,  you  know.  He's  a  very 
wise  man;  it  was  clever  of  him  to  go  on  traveling  for 

350 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

another  year  after  the  marriage.  They  camped  out  in 
Morocco,  the  spring  and  part  of  the  summer  before  they 
came  back.  She  is  a  lucky  woman,  is  Nicky." 

The  little  Greek  looked  meditatively  to  where  Cuckoo 
sat  with  her  aunts,  young  Taylor  on  a  stool  a  little  way 
off,  gazing  at  her. 

"It's  a  pity,"  he  said  abruptly,  "that  there  is  not  a 
child." 

"Yes,  I  was  saying  so  only  the  other  day  to  the  old 
ladies." 

"However,  there's  plenty  of  time,  though  he  is  sixty- 
four,  and  so  far  a.s  I  know  never  had  any  children  at  all. 
Esperons  le  bien!  Shall  I  show  you  some  card  tricks?" 

The  little  man  had  a  positive  genius  for  this  innocent 
kind  of  entertainment,  but  Lady  Pelter  shook  her 
head. 

"No.  I  want  him  to  show  us  the  Bag  of  Saffron.  There 
seems  to  be  some  mystery  about  it." 

She  turned  in  her  seat  and  called  to  her  host. 

"Peregrine." 

Instantly  he  put  down  his  book  and  came  towards  her. 

"Yes,  my  dear  Blanche."  Young  Taylor  looked  at  him, 
unwilling  admiration  in  his  handsome  face. 

"By  Jove !"  he  muttered. 

Cuckoo  smiled.    "Yes,  isn't  he  ?"  she  said. 

"Peregrine,  don't  be  a  bore.  Do  get  the  Bag  of  Saf- 
fron and  show  it  to  us."  Lady  Pelter,  very  pretty  indeed 
in  her  fluffy  black  gown,  looked  up  with  a  childish  grimace 
of  entreaty. 

"I  have  told  you,"  he  said  gravely,  "that  the  thing  isn't 
worth  looking  at." 

"And  I  have  said  that  I  have  seen  it  and  think  it  is. 
Nicky,  make  him  show  it  to  us." 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "Dear  Lady  Pelter,"  she  murmured, 
"how  could  I  make  him?" 

351 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Sir  Peregrine  looked  from  his  wife  to  the  speaker  and 
back.  Then  he  said  slowly: 

"Very  well,  Blanche,  if  you  insist,  I'll  go  and  get  the 
thing,  but  remember,  I'll  not  let  it  out  of  my  own  hands." 

He  left  the  room  and  there  was  a  momentary  silence. 

"What  is  the  thing?  Tell  me  about  it?"  Taylor 
pleaded,  moving  nearer  to  Cuckoo. 

Lady  Pelter  answered.  "It's  a  very,  very  old  jewel 
that  is  supposed  to  bring  luck,  or  health,  or  something, 
to  the  woman  who  wears  it.  It's  hideous,  I  know  that 
much,  and  it  hangs  on  a  gloriously  beautiful  diamond 
chain,  so  if  I  were  you,  Nicky,  I'd  wear  it." 

Cuckoo  hid  a  little  yawn. 

"I've  only  seen  it,  as  I  said  the  other  day  at  lunch, 
once  years  ago,  by  chance,  in  a  jeweller's  shop.  My  hus- 
band has  never  shown  it  to  me  and  he  never  talks  about 
it.  Did  you  not  see,"  she  added  to  Lady  Pelter,  "that  he 
didn't  wish  to  get  it  now?" 

Lady  Pelter  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "He  was  very 
tiresome  about  it,"  she  pouted  in  what  Rachel  called 
"mother's  maddening,  spoilt-baby  way,"  "so  I  made  up 
my  mind  I'd  make  him." 

Janeways  came  in  a  few  minutes  later,  with  a  little 
brass  chest  in  his  hand.  Then  he  set  it  on  the  table  by 
the  group  of  people  that  drew  near  him.  "I  warn  you," 
he  said,  "you  are  all  going  to  be  disappointed."  He 
opened  the  box  by  touching  some  spring  and  took  from 
it  a  bag  of  worn,  dark  blue  velvet  brocade. 

"There,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  Bag  of  Saffron." 

He  held  the  chain  over  his  two  hands,  the  magnificent 
diamonds  flashing  in  the  light,  the  little  shabby  pendant 
looking  curiously  inadequate  as  it  swayed  to  and  fro. 

Cuckoo  alone  had  not  moved.  She  sat,  her  face  politely 
turned  towards  them,  but  without  a  ray  of  interest  in  it. 
No  one  offered  to  take  the  jewel  from  its  owner's  hands 

352 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

and  after  a  moment  he  put  it  back  into  its  bag  and  closed 
the  lid  of  the  box  on  it. 

"Was  it  worth  while?"  he  asked. 

Mantepop  had  drawn  back  a  little  and  was  watching 
Cuckoo,  who  now  stared  absently  into  the  fire.  Now  he 
went  up  to  her. 

"Don't  you  care  for  diamonds,  Lady  Janeways?" 

She  started.  "I  love  jewels  of  all  kinds,  and  I  suppose 
I  love  diamonds  and  rubies  best,  because  they  are  the 
most  valuable,"  she  said  quietly. 

The  little  man  was  very  much  interested,  very  curious, 
but  dared  say  no  more. 

That  evening,  much  later,  Lady  Janeways  knocked  at 
the  door  of  her  husband's  dressing-room 

"May  I  come  in,  Pelly?"  she  asked. 

"Come  in,  my  dear."  He  rose  and  put  a  chair  for 
her  by  the  fire. 

She  was  in  her  dressing-gown,  but  she  had  not  touched 
her  hair  and  she  still  wore  her  little  high-heeled  satin 
shoes. 

"I've  come  to  ask  you  something,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  you  know,  my  dear,  that  anything  I  can  do 
for  you,  I  do  with  the  greatest  pleasure." 

Suddenly  she  knelt  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  turn- 
ing, put  both  hands  on  his  knee. 

"Pelly,"  she  said,  "I  want  the  Bag  of  Saffron." 

His  face  changed  a  little,  but  he  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 

"You  want  a  diamond  chain,  my  dear?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  it  isn't  only  the  chain.  I 
want  the  Bag  of  Saffron  itself.  Do  you  remember  that 
day  when  you  told  me  the  story  about  it  ?  Sitting  outside 
the  little  church  by  the  conventj  in  Paris?" 

"I  remember  everything,"  he  said,  sadly,  but  with  a 
little  smile. 

353 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Well,  why  haven't  you  given  it  to  me?" 

Looking  over  her  head  into  the  fire,  he  was  silent  for 
what  seemed  a  long  time.  Finally  she  interrupted  his  si- 
lence. 

"I  remember  what  you  told  me.  You've  never  given 
it  to  anyone,  and  only  that  nun  was  good  enough.  Pere- 
grine, is  it,"  she  asked,  rising  to  her  knees  and  looking 
straight  into  his  eyes,  "because  you  think  I'm  not  good?" 

"If  I  didn't  think  you  good,  you  would  not  be  my  wife, 
Nicoleta,"  he  answered,  with  the  sternness  that  lay  some- 
how so  near  always  to  his  gentle  kindness. 

"I  could  see  Aunt  Flora  thinking  to-night  that  that  was 
why,  because — because  of  George — what  I  did  to  him. 
Was  it  that?" 

He  rose.  "My  dear,  no.  I  know  you  to  be  an  abso- 
lutely virtuous  woman.  I  would  stake  my  soul  on  your 
never  having  had  so  much  as  your  hand  kissed  by  any 
man  but  Loxley  and  myself.  But  I  can't  give  you  the 
Bag  of  Saffron." 

"But  why?"  she  persisted.  "Why?  It's  yours  and 
you  could  if  you  wanted  to.  These  people  know  the  story ; 
everybody  knows  the  story,  and  if  I  don't  wear  it  this 
Season  in  town  what  will  people  think?" 

"People  must  think  as,  du  reste,  they  always  do,"  he 
returned  quietly;  "what  they  like.  I  can't  explain  my 
feeling  to  you — it's  in  my  blood.  If  there  is  any  other 
jewel  that  you  would  like  to  have,  that  is  within  my  means, 
I  will  get  it  for  you.  Thank  God,  I  am  a  very  rich  man." 

Cuckoo  did  not  answer  and  he  went  on : 

"Would  you  like  another  string  of  pearls  ?" 

She  was  frowning,  angry  and  hurt,  but  at  these  words 
her  face  gradually  lightened. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  voice  breaking  a  little,  "I  should 
like  some  pearls,  and  I  want  a  ruby,  a  big,  uncut  one, 
like  a  little  pear,  to  wear  round  my  neck." 

354 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Janeways'  brows  contracted  for  a  second,  but  not  in 
anger. 

"You  shall  have  them,"  he  said,  "and  soon.  Now, 
good-night,  my  dear.  You  look  tired." 

He  kissed  her  forehead  and  opened  the  door,  holding 
it  open  until  he  had  heard  her  door  close. 

Then  he  went  back  and  again  sat  down  by  the  fire. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

f  f  TT7HERE  are  you  going,  Nicky?" 
VV        "I'm  going  on  the  lake." 

Rachel  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"Not  with  Adrian?" 

"With  Adrian." 

The  two  girls  sat  on  the  broad  stone  balustrade  of  the 
peacock  terrace  one  morning  two  or  three  days  later. 
Cuckoo  was  in  white,  and  wore  a  funny,  cone-shaped  hat 
of  iridescent  green  and  blue.  It  had  pleased  her  of  late 
to  wear  peacock  colors,  and  with  her  look  of  abounding 
health  and  strength,  the  colors  did  not  quench  her  little 
face.  Rachel  wore  blue  and  looked,  beside  her  friend,  a 
little  dowdy. 

"You'll  have  trouble  with  him,"  Rachel  went  on,  after 
a  moment.  "I've  been  watching." 

"It  must  have  been  dull,"  Cuckoo  returned  indifferently. 

"It  wasn't  dull;  and  what  is  more,  your  Aunt  Effie 
has  noticed  him,  too." 

"It's  a  pity  it  wasn't  Aunt  Flora.  Poor  dear  aunts," 
Cuckoo  laughed.  "It  really  hurts  them  to  think  of  me 
as  a  daughter  of  Belial,  but  they  can't  help  it,  poor  things. 
Peregrine  says  that  Aunt  Flora  was  as  pretty  as  a  picture 
when  he  was  a  young  man.  How  dreadful  old  age  is,"  she 
added  dreamily. 

Rachel  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  then,  visibly  taking 
her  courage  in  her  hands,  she  went  on. 

"Look  here,  Nicky,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something, 
and  you  mustn't  be  angry,  because  it's  only  because  she's 
fond  of  you." 

356 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"What's  because  who's  fond  of  me?"  Cuckoo's  voice 
had  changed. 

"It's  mamma.  She's  afraid  Peregrine  will  notice  about 
Adrian  Taylor."  Rachel  drew  back,  almost  as  if  in  fear, 
as  Cuckoo  turned  round  and  looked  her  in  the  face. 

"Say  exactly  what  you  mean,  please,  Rachel.  What 
is  there  in  Adrian  Taylor  that  it  could  possibly  concern 
my  husband  to  notice?" 

Rachel's  worn,  rather  fretful  face  flushed.  "You 
needn't  put  on  your  great  airs  with  me,  Nicky.  You 
don't  frighten  me  and  it's  silly.  Everyone  can  see  that 
he's  crazy  about  you,  even  Yvette  said  something  about 
it  the  other  day — somebody  was  looking  for  you,  and 
Yvette  said  she  had  just  seen  Mr.  Taylor  go  to  the  rose- 
garden,  so  that  you  would  probably  be  there." 

"The  poor  young  man  is  a  poet ;  his  manners  overleap 
his  feelings.  Ah,  here  he  comes." 

She  rose,  but  Rachel  went  on  hurriedly,  laying  her  hand 
on  Cuckoo's  sleeve. 

"Look  here,  Cuckoo,  do  be  careful.  Mamma  says  every- 
thing's gone  so  splendidly  for  you,  it  would  be  too  awful 
if  you  made  a  mistake  now  and  spoilt  it  all." 

Taylor  had  come  up  the  steps  of  the  terrace  and  was 
approaching  them  slowly  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  pea- 
cocks, who  were  having  a  small  durbar  of  their  own. 
Cuckoo  looked  at  him. 

"I  shall  go,"  she  said  in  an  even  voice,  "wherever  I 
like  with  Adrian  Taylor,  or  with  anyone  else,  and  when- 
ever I  like.  What  I  do  is  nobody's  business  but  my  own." 

Rachel  could  not  help  being  impressed  by  her  manner, 
but  for  all  that  she  went  on  doggedly. 

"Mamma  has  known  Pelly  Janeways  since  before  you 
were  born,"  she  persisted,  "and  she  says  that  he  can  be 
perfectly  dreadful  if  he's  angry.  Cuckoo,  do  be  careful. 
If  you  are  really  fond  of  Adrian " 

357 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

The  marble  under  Lady  Janeways*  feet  received  a  sharp 
smack  from  one  of  her  small  brown  shoes. 

"Heavens  and  earth,  Rachel,  you  make  me  sick!  Do 
you  suppose  I  don't  know  about  Captain  Gascoyne?  I 
ran  away  and  left  my  husband  for  another  man.  You 
have  not  left  your  husband,  and  you've  not  run  away  with 
the  other  man,  therefore  you  think  yourself  a  model  wife 
and  dare  to  suspect  me  of  being  a  sneak  and  a  beast. 
Hallo,  Adrian,"  she  cried,  "I'm  ready,"  adding  in  an 
undertone  to  the  terrified  Rachel,  "You  are  quite  right.  I 
am  a  beast,  but  I'm  a  beast  in  my  own  way — and  my  way 
isn't  your  way." 

She  joined  young  Taylor,  who  was  looking  ex- 
tremely handsome  in  his  white  flannels,  and  the  two 
strolled  away  over  the  beautifully  kept  lawn,  down  the 
marble  steps  so  like  the  steps  in  a  fairy  story,  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  belt  of  trees  that  hid  from  the  terrace 
all  but  a  glimmering  streak  of  the  lake,  whither  they 
were  bound. 

Rachel  Jackson  was  angry,  but  hers  was  not  the  anger 
of  righteousness  and  soon  died  away,  for  there  was  in 
it  a  disintegrating  element  of  vanity.  She  was  proud  of 
her  inconsiderable  conquest  of  Captain  Gascoyne  and 
could  not  help  being  glad  that  Cuckoo  had  noticed  it ;  so 
in  a  few  moments  her  anger  had  evaporated,  and  she  went 
upstairs  to  have  her  first  look  that  day  at  the  children. 
It  was  only  ten  o'clock,  for  amongst  Cuckoo's  good  points 
was  the  one  of  early  rising,  and  the  two  girls  and  one  or 
two  stray  guests  had  had  their  breakfast  an  hour  ago. 
But  as  she  passed  the  breakfast-room  window,  Rachel  saw 
that  several  of  the  little  breakfast-tables  were  occupied. 

After  she  had  disappeared,  Miss  Flora  and  Miss  Effie 
finished  their  breakfast  and  went  out  together  on  the 
west  terrace,  where,  at  the  south  end,  there  was  a  shady 
oasis  of  chairs  and  tables. 

358 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Have  you  seen  Nicoleta  this  morning?"  Miss  Flora 
asked,  for  Miss  Effie  had  been  down  before  her. 

"Yes,  Flora.  She  sat  with  me  at  breakfast  until  some 
of  the  others  came  down.  She  doesn't  seem  to  have  a  real 
place.  I  suppose  it  is  very  delightful,  this  way  of  little 
tables,  but  I  shall  always  think  that  there  ought  to  be  a 
tea  and  coffee  service  and  the  hostess  sitting  pouring 
out " 

"Of  course,  when  there  are  so  many  people  in  the 
house,"  Miss  Flora  replied  in  timid  defence  of  the  new 
customs,  which  she  liked  no  better  than  did  her  sister, 
"it  would  make  her  very  tired  pouring  out  for  them, 
particularly  if  they  all  took  two  cups.  And  the  little 
separate  tea  and  coffee  services  are  very  pretty,  Effie. 
But  where  did  you  say  Cuck — Nicoleta  went?" 

"She's  gone  off  somewhere  with  the  long-legged  poet." 
The  scorn  in  Miss  Effie's  voice  was  most  audible. 

"I  wonder,"  Miss  Flora  mused,  "whether  Peregrine 
likes  Mr.  Taylor  ?  Sometimes  I  have  thought  he  doesn't." 

"He  says  he's  very  gifted." 

"Oh,  Effie,  so  was  Lord  Byron  gifted." 

It  was  a  curious  chance  that  Miss  Flora  and  Janeways 
should  have  been  together  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  a  few 
hours  later,  when  young  Taylor  came  tearing  through  the 
wood,  bearing  in  his  arms  an  unconscious  and  dripping 
Cuckoo. 

She  had  slipped  in  getting  out  of  the  boat,  he  explained ; 
and  Janeways,  after  feeling  his  wife's  pulse,  took  her  from 
the  young  man  and  carried  her  to  the  house  without  a 
word. 

Half  an  hour  later  Cuckoo  had  come  to  and  was  better, 
and  Aunt  Flora  sat  by  her  bed,  hearing  her  story. 

They  had  rowed  to  the  far  side  of  the  lake,  walked  up 
over  the  moors,  and  taken  the  boat  back,  and  then  somehow 
the  boat  overturned  and  she  could  remember  no  more. 

359 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"You  must  have  stepped  on  the  edge  of  the  boat, 
Cuckoo,"  Miss  Flora  murmured,  stroking  her  hand  softly. 

Cuckoo  stared.  "How  could  I  have  stepped  on  the 
edge,"  she  said,  "when  I  was  sitting  in  the  middle?" 

Janeways,  who  stood  by  the  window,  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  turned  at  this. 

"Come,  Flora,"  he  said,  "you  and  I  had  better  go  down 
now,  and  perhaps  she'll  go  to  sleep." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  looking 
at  his  wife,  his  dark  eyes  full  of  an  expression  that  poor 
Miss  Flora  could  not  understand  but  which  vaguely 
alarmed  her,  and  as  he  and  she  went  down  the  broad 
stairs  together  they  met  Taylor  coming  up.  The  young 
man's  face,  as  he  had  emerged  from  the  little  wood,  had 
made  an  unforgettable  impression  on  Miss  Flora,  and  even 
now,  when  he  had  had  time  to  recover  and  change  his 
clothes,  he  looked  unnecessarily,  and  too  conspicuously, 
shaken. 

Janeways  looked  at  him,  his  position  on  the  stairs 
giving  him  the  advantage  of  a  couple  of  feet. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"She  was  getting  out  and  lost  her  balance  and — must 

have  stepped  on  the  edge  of  the  boat "  He  broke 

off,  his  eyes  wavering.  Janeways  stood  very  erect,  look- 
ing at  him. 

"That  is  the  explanation  Miss  Plues  just  suggested  to 
my  wife  herself,"  he  said,  measuredly.  "It  isn't  a  good 
explanation,  Taylor." 

"I— I——" 

"Don't  do  it  again,"  Janeways  went  on.  Then,  lean- 
ing forward  a  little,  he  said,  very  quietly,  "I  am  sorry  I 
can't  ask  you  to  stay  in  my  house  any  longer.  The  car 
will  be  at  the  door  in  half  an  hour's  time,  and  you  can 
easily  catch  the  two-fifteen  train  from  Redcastle."  After 
a  second  he  added  politely,  "Good-bye,"  and  walked  slowly 

360 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

downstairs.  He  crossed  the  great  hall  and  went  out  on 
the  terrace,  then,  after  a  moment,  without  paying  any 
attention  to  Miss  Flora,  whom  he  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten, went  down  the  steps  and  on  and  on,  till  he  reached 
a  path  leading  between  eight-foot  yew  hedges  on  to  the 
left.  Down  this  path  he  disappeared. 

Miss  Flora,  who  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  whose 
hands  shook  so  that,  to  get  them  out  of  her  sight,  she 
folded  them  away  under  her  arms,  stood  for  a  moment  in 
the  door,  and  then  with  a  resolute  air  that  sat  oddly  on 
her  tenuous,  tremulous  old  frame,  followed  him. 

She  had  never  been  a  morally  brave  woman  and  she 
was  very  frightened  at  her  undertaking,  but  she  walked 
quickly  on,  her  head  high.  It  had  rained  the  night  before 
and  the  smell  of  freshly-clipped  yew,  pungent  and  sug- 
gestive of  romance,  filled  the  air.  At  the  far  end  of  the 
green  alley  there  was  a  path  leading  up  to  the  high  moor 
and  there  she  knew  she  would  find  Janeways.  She  had 
known  the  man  almost  all  her  life,  but  she  had  never 
known  him  well;  he,  as  a  young  man,  had  had  for  her 
and  her  sister  the  kind  of  careless,  uninterested  affection 
that  young  men  living  in  a  great  world  do  have  for  quiet, 
old-fashioned  women  in  the  country. 

His  wild  doings,  the  tales  of  which  had  reached  Rose- 
roofs  off  and  on  throughout  many  years,  had  frightened 
and  hurt  Miss  Flora,  though  she  had  never  spoken  of 
them.  But  the  greatest  hurt  of  all  had  been  when  he 
had  shown  so  little  respect  for  her  mother's  memory  and 
for  her  own  and  her  sister's  friendship,  as  to  bring 
shame  and  grief  to  the  little  house  that  had  never  held 
for  him  anything  but  hospitality.  There  was  no  one  in 
the  world  by  running  away  with  whom  Cuckoo  could  have 
brought  so  much  sorrow  to  her  aunts,  as  Peregrine  Jane- 
ways,  and  Miss  Flora  had  lain  awake  many  a  night 
grieving  as  much  for  the  fact  that  it  was  he,  as  for  the 

361 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

fact  that  Cuckoo  had  broken  her  vows  and  brought  shame 
and  ruin  to  her  husband. 

But  now  the  old  lady  believed  Janeways  to  be  in 
trouble,  so  down  the  long  path  she  went  and  out  from  the 
green  shadow  into  the  broad  sunlight,  up  the  narrow, 
winding  way  to  the  moor,  and  there  she  found  him  seated 
on  the  edge  of  an  abrupt  precipitous  fall  to  the  dale, 
much  as  he  might  have  sat  on  a  headland  by  the  sea. 

He  rose  when  he  saw  her  and  threw  away  his  cigar. 

"My  dear  Miss  Flora!"  he  exclaimed,  surprised.  "I 
hope  nothing  has  happened?  She  isn't  worse?" 

Miss  Flora  stood,  one  hand  to  her  heart,  which  was 
beating  very  hard.  "You  forget,"  she  said,  "I  left  her 
when  you  did.  No,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about — 
things." 

He  bowed  courteously,  his  white  hair  shining  in  the 
sun. 

"Shall  we  walk  on  a  little  further?  There's  a  bench  a 
little  way  on." 

They  sat  down  on  the  bench,  and  Miss  Flora,  with  the 
desperate  courage  of  shy  people,  burst  out  suddenly  into 
the  depths  of  things. 

"It's  about  Cuckoo,  and  that  young  man."  Janeways 
looked  at  her. 

"What  young  man?" 

"The  one  you  sent  away — Mr.  Taylor." 

"Oh,  Taylor,  yes,  yes.  I  forgot  you  were  there,"  he 
returned,  obviously  sincere.  "What  about  him?" 

Miss  Flora  clasped  her  hands  to  still  their  tremble. 

"I'm  glad  you  sent  him  away,"  she  said.  "I  didn't 
like  him ;  neither  did  Effie." 

Janeways  smiled  a  little. 

"Dear  Flora,"  he  said,  his  voice  very  gentle,  "I'm  sorry 
you  were  there  on  the  stairs.  I'm  afraid  you  misunder- 
stood." 

362 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"I  didn't  misunderstand.  We  are  old-fashioned  people 
and  know  nothing  of  modern  ways,  but  some  things  are 
the  same  everywhere,  and  even  when  one  is  old  one  does 
not  forget  how  to  recognize  them." 

"Yes  ?"  He  looked  at  her,  a  very  kind  smile  in  his  dark 
eye. 

"It  is  flirting,"  she  said.  "He  has  been  flirting  with 
Cuckoo,  and  that  is  why  you  sent  him  away.  But  I'm 
sure,"  she  hurried  on,  "I'm  perfectly  sure,  Peregrine,  that 
— that  it  wasn't  Cuckoo's  fault." 

Janeways  laid  one  hand  on  hers.  "I  am  very  glad 
this  has  happened,"  he  said,  "that  you  have  come  to  me. 
Between  us  we  may  arrive  at  the  truth — we  two  old  people 
— for  we  are  old,  you  know,  Flora " 

She  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  said  simply.  "It's  a  dread- 
ful thing,  isn't  it?" 

He  didn't  answer  this,  but  went  on  in  response  to  what 
she  had  said  before. 

"To  begin  with,  you  are  no  more  sure  than  I  that 
Taylor  has  been  doing  what  can  only  be  expressed  by 
that  hideous  and  most  vulgar  word,  flirting.  Nicoleta 
never  flirts.  As  to  the  young  man,  I  didn't  put  him  out 
of  my  house  because  he  was  flirting  with  my  wife  or  be- 
cause he  made  love  to  her.  I  put  him  out  of  my  house 
because  he  made  love  to  her  against  her  will,  and  was 
therefore  a  nuisance." 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Flora,  with  a  little  gasp.  "I  was 
afraid  you  would  be  angry  with  her." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  she  studied  Jane- 
ways'  strong,  keenly-edged  profile  as  he  stared  out  across 
the  dale.  This  little  conversation  was  one  of  the  events 
in  Miss  Flora's  long,  nearly  eventless  life.  She  was  shaken 
with  its  portent,  but  it  had  filled  her  heart  with  a  queer 
sensation  of  youth.  It  amazed  her  to  think,  as  she  looked 
at  her  companion,  that  there  was  to-day  nothing,  abso- 

363 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

lutely  nothing,  that  she,  Flora  Angela  Plues,  would  not 
dare  to  say  to  Peregrine  Janeways,  the  Magnifi- 
cent. 

At  last  he  spoke  without  turning. 

"I  was  angry — a  little,"  he  said,  "but  only  as  I  should 
be  angry  with  any  one  who  disturbed  the  atmosphere  of 
my  house  by  unwelcome  demonstrations  of  any  kind. 
What  you  have  seen  in  me  and  mistaken  for  anger,  Flora, 
is  worse  than  anger — it  is,  my  dear  friend,  trouble. 
Trouble,"  he  repeated. 

"I  knew  there  was  something,  Pelly."  It  was  five-and- 
f  orty  years  since  she  had  called  him  Pelly,  but  they  neither 
of  them  noticed  the  transition. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  deeply,  irrevocably  wronged 
your  niece." 

"But  Lady  Pelter  said " 

He  laughed  compassionately  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  shall  have  to  explain  to  you,  I  see.  Lady  Pelter,  of 
course,  has  said  that  the  world  is  going  to  forgive  Nicoleta 
for  running  away  from  her  husband  and  for  marrying  me. 
That  was  not  what  I  meant.  That  kind  of  forgiveness 
is  worth  nothing." 

Even  now  poor  Miss  Flora  did  not  understand,  and  her 
chin  quivered  as  she  asked  him  in  a  hushed  voice: 

"Do  you  mean  religion?" 

He  laughed  again,  still  in  the  gentle  way  peculiar  to 
him,  that  never  hurt  anybody. 

"No;  I  don't  mean  religion — or  perhaps  I  do.  Shall 
I  try  to  tell  you?  I  don't  think  I've  ever  tried  to  tell 
anybody,  but  I  shouldn't  mind  you." 

The  flush  that  at  these  words  rose  in  Miss  Flora's  face 
was  so  bright,  so  beautiful,  that  something  stirred  in  his 
chest  and  burned  in  his  eyes  at  the  sight  of  it.  Just  so 
had  she  flushed  nearly  half  a  century  before  when  he  had 
talked  to  her.  She  said  nothing,  and  he  began. 

364 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Have  you  ever  wondered,"  he  asked,  "how  I  could  so 
hurt  you  and  your  sister  as  to  do  what  I  did?" 

Miss  Flora  bent  over  her  hands.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I 
have  wondered." 

"Then  I  will  tell  you,  and  that  will  perhaps  help  you 
to  understand  what  I  mean  by  saying  that  I've  hurt  Nico- 
leta.  Flora,  I  didn't  know  until  after  our  marriage,  that 
she  was  Bob  Blundell's  daughter." 

"You  didn't  know!" 

"No.  I  never  saw  her  name  written,  and  assumed  that 
it  was  Locksley.  She  never  mentioned  her  family;  she 
said  very  little  about  her  husband,  and  it  was  two  or  three 
days  after  our  wedding  that  I  happened  to  ask  her  her 
father's  name.  This  seems  incredible,  but  it's  perfectly 
true.  You  see,  we  had  been  traveling  all  the  time  of  the 
divorce.  I  was  very  happy  in  making  her  happy;  she's 
a  born  traveler,  a  born  sight-seer,  of  the  best  kind.  She 
was  never  tired,  and  the  world  was  full  of  things  that  I 
wanted  her  to  see.  I  was,"  he  added  slowly,  "deeply  in 
love  with  her.  I  was  also  bent  on  putting  out  of  my  mind 
a  fact  that  I  had  only  recently  discovered — the  fact  that, 
in  spite  of  my  health,  my  muscular  strength,  and  what  I 
suppose  is  my  irresistible  love  of  life,  I  was  really,  by 
God's  will,  an  old  man.  So  thus  it  happened  that  for 
over  a  year  I  didn't  know  who  she  was." 

"Did  she — did  she  never  mention  us  ?"  asked  poor  Miss 
Flora. 

"Often;  but  only  as  'my  two  aunts.'  I  asked  her  who 
her  father  had  been,  and  when  she  told  me,  I  think  it  was 
the  greatest  shock  I  had  ever  had  in  my  life.  I  was  very, 
very  sorry,  Flora." 

Miss  Flora  sighed  deeply. 

"Even  if  you  had  known,  dear  Peregrine,"  she  said, 
"you  couldn't  have  helped — falling  in  love  with  her." 

"Yes,  ah,  yes,  I  could.  If  I  had  known  in  Paris  I  should 

365 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

never  have  seen  her  again.  Her  father,  though  he  was  in 
a  way  a  friend  of  mine,  didn't  so  much  matter.  But  I 
loved  jour  mother,  when  I  was  a  little  chap,  and  I've  al- 
ways regarded  Effie  and  you  as  among  my  few  real 
friends." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Miss  Fiona  softly. 

"Besides,"  he  went  on  in  a  musing  voice,  speaking  as 
much  to  himself  as  to  her,  "I  didn't,  as  you  say,  fall  in 
love  with  Nicoleta;  I  walked  in  deliberately,  waded  out 
to  my  armpits  and  then  plunged;  and  the  wrong  that  I 
have  done  her " 

"And  poor  George," — suggested  Miss  Flora. 

Janeways  rose  and  walked  up  and  down,  his  arms  folded, 
his  head  bent. 

"George,  or  someone  else.  Nicoleta,"  he  said,  "isn't 
really  alive  yet.  She  has  none  of  the  faults  and  none  of 
the  virtues  of  her  age.  She  never  loved  me,  to  do  her 
justice  she  never  said  she  did.  She  didn't  run  away  to 
me,  she  ran  away  from  poverty  and  poor  Loxley." 

"That  makes  it  worse,"  said  Miss  Flora  unexpectedly. 
"We  always  thought  she  loved  you." 

"You  don't  think  so  now,  do  you?"  he  asked  with  a 
whimsical  smile,  devoid  of  all  bitterness  or  hurt  vanity. 

"No,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  sorry.  You  must  never  tell 
Erne  this,  you  know:  Effie  is  the  clever  one  of  the  family 
and  she  doesn't  know,  and  it  would  shock  her  to  have  me 
know ;  but  there  has  always  been  something  dreadful  about 
Cuckoo,  and  I  first  learned  it  when  she  was  a  little  child. 
I  love  her  and  I  am  sorry  for  her,  but  I  think  it  my  duty 
to  tell  you  that  I  do  not  believe  you  to  have  wronged  her 
as  you  might  have  wronged,  in  doing  what  you  did,  a  dif- 
ferent kind  of  girl " 

"Dear  Flora,  don't  say  any  more,  I  understand.  So 
you've  known  all  these  years  what  I  have  known  only  a 
few  months." 

366 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Miss  Flora's  face  was  very  white  and  drawn. 

"Oh,  Peregrine,"  she  said,  "it  has  always  been  dreadful 
to  me.  I've  never  been  able  to  help  seeing  things,  though 
everybody  always  thought  I  didn't  see  anything,  and  it 
makes  me  feel  so  guilty  towards  Effie."  She  wrung  her 
hands  gently,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  After  a 
moment's  hesitation  she  went  on,  "At  the  time  that  every- 
one was  saying  how  wicked  it  was  of  you  to  run  away 
with  her  and  that  she  was  so  young,  I  always  felt,  al- 
though it  seemed  ridiculous,  that  you  were  more  to  be 
pitied  than  she.  It  seemed  to  me  that,  in  a  way,  you  were 
the  young  and  innocent  one.  And  now  you  are  unhap- 
py. Oh,  Peregrine,  I  do  wish  you  didn't  love  her  so 
much." 

He  sat  down  and  put  his  arms  round  her  bent,  hard 
shoulders. 

"Dear  Flora,"  he  murmured,  "don't  be  troubled  about 
me.  You  spoke  just  like  your  mother  then.  Ah,  I  re- 
member her  so  well !  As  to  poor  little  Nicoleta,  the  fault 
isn't  hers,  and  about  my  love,  well,  it  was  a  thing  of  vanity 
and  selfishness.  I  deliberately  encouraged  it  to  prove  to 
myself  that  I  was  still  young.  The  thing  that  troubles 
me  now  is  not  myself,  but  the  fact  that  I  have  taken  from 
a  human  creature  her  right  to  develop  and  grow  on  natural 
lines.  It's  as  if  I  had  bent  a  rose-tree  and  fastened  it 
down  to  the  earth  and  forced  it  to  grow  that  way " 

Miss  Flora  said  nothing. 

"Nicoleta  is  only  twenty-three  now;  I  am  forty  years 
older  than  she  is.  I  have  made  her  rich  and  given  her 
the  things  she  thinks  she  loves  best  in  the  world,  but  I 
have  taken  from  her  the  right  to  love  the  right  things  and 
to  live  the  right  way.  What  ought  to  be  to  her  the  beau- 
tiful accomplishment  of  her  youth  I  have  made  into  a 
potential  sin.  I  declare  to  you,  Flora,"  he  added,  "that 
I  am  sincere  in  saying  that  I  wish  I  could  die  now  and 

367 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

leave  that  poor  child  free  honorably  to  fulfil  her  natural 
destiny." 

Miss  Flora's  eyes  were  still  full  of  tears — tears  that 
fell  slowly  down  her  delicate,  faded  face.  "But  you  are 
so  good  to  her,"  she  cried,  "so  good." 

"I'm  kind  to  her,"  he  said,  "I'm  fond  of  her.  The 
women  I  have  really  loved  in  my  life,  and,"  he  added  with  a 
whimsical  but  rather  sad  little  smile,  "they  have  been 
many,  Flora,  might  have  been  her  grandmothers  so  far 
as  age  goes.  I  was  in  love  with  Nicoleta  at  first,  but  I 
did  not  love  her,  and  now  it  would  not  be  true  to  say  that 
I  love  her  as  a  wife  or — anything  but  a  friend,  or — a 
grandfather!  I  am  fond  of  her,  and  I  believe  I  am  the 
only  person  in  the  world  who  can  see  in  her  the  poor  little 
cramped,  undeveloped  germ  of  a  soul  that  is  all  she  has. 
And  that,"  he  added  quietly,  "is  my  trouble,  Flora." 

He  took  out  his  fine  cambric  handkerchief  and  gave 
it  to  the  old  lady,  who  was  vainly  struggling  to  find  the 
pocket  that  in  her  smart  London  frock  did  not  exist. 

"Wipe  your  eyes,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "I  wonder  if 
you  would  have  married  me  if  I  had  asked  you  forty  years 
ago.  You  were  the  right  age  and  perhaps  we  might  have 
been  happy,  and  then  your  Cuckoo  would  have  been  my 
niece,  too." 

He  spoke  with  a  whimsical  gaiety,  smiling  down  on  the 
weeping  Miss  Flora. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up,  having  wiped  her  eyes,  which 
shone  as  brightly  as  any  girl  of  twenty's. 

"We  are  so  old  now,  Peregrine  Janeways,"  she  said, 
"that  I'm  not  ashamed  to  tell  you  that  I'd  have  married 
you  and  thanked  God  on  my  knees  for  you,  when  I  was 
young." 

Sir  Peregrine  raised  her  hands  and  kissed  them  gal- 
lantly. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  main- 

368 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

tained  her  feeling  of  perfect  composure.  "Would  you, 
indeed?  And  to  think  that  I  never  knew  it!  I  should 
like,"  he  added,  "to  have  had  you  wear  the  Bag  of  Saf- 
fron." 

Then  he  gave  her  his  arm  and  they  walked  slowly  back 
to  the  house. 

Perhaps  that  was  the  happiest  day  of  Miss  Flora's 
life. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

LATE  one  afternoon,  a  few  days  later,  Cuckoo  and 
Rachel  were  sitting  in  a  boat  in  the  middle  of  the 
little  lake;  the  sky  was  gray,  but  there  was  no 
menace  of  rain,  and  the  oppressive  air  seemed  less  heavy 
here  than  anywhere  else. 

Cuckoo  had  rowed  to  the  middle  of  the  lake  and  an- 
chored the  boat,  and  on  the  middle  seat  stood  the  contents 
of  a  small  tea-basket. 

The  two  girls  were  lying  on  cushions  very  comfortably, 
their  hats  off,  their  tea-cups  waiting  for  the  water  to  boil. 
For  a  long  time  Rachel,  who,  as  she  grew  older,  was 
developing  the  pleasant  indolence  of  her  mother,  lay 
quiet,  her  head  on  her  hand,  watching  the  blue  flame 
under  the  kettle  that  stood  on  the  middle  seat,  without 
speaking.  Cuckoo,  who  had  never  been  lazy,  had  divided 
the  bread  and  butter  and  the  little  cakes  on  two  of  the 
enamel  plates  and  arranged  everything  for  the  tea-making. 
It  was  so  still  that  the  blue  flame  under  the  shining  kettle 
was  as  motionless  as  if  carved  out  of  a  bit  of  stone,  and 
the  dwarf  birches  that  grew  round  the  north  end  of  the 
small  lake  were  reflected  in  water  so  quiet  that  it  was 
impossible  to  see  where  the  reflection  began  and  where 
the  real  leaves  stopped. 

Every  now  and  then  Cuckoo  looked  at  her  friend,  half 
expectantly,  but  it  was  some  time  before  Rachel  spoke. 
Then  she  burst  out  suddenly,  looking  fixedly  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat: 

"Cuckoo,  will  you  lend  me  two  hundred  pounds?" 

Cuckoo  burst  out  laughing.  "Is  that  all?  And  here 

370 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

was  I  expecting  you  to  tell  me  that  you  had  slain  the 
twins  and  buried  them  somewhere  in  the  rose-garden! 
Of  course  I  will,  you  goose ;  that  is,  I'll  ask  Pere- 
grine." 

Rachel  sat  up  and  clasped  her  knees. 

"Oh,  no.  You  mustn't  tell  anyone.  If  Alison  were 
to  hear  of  it  I  don't  know  what  he'd  do  to  me." 

The  kettle  was  boiling,  and  Cuckoo,  before  answering, 
took  it  off  and  quenched  the  little  flame. 

"Debts?"  she  asked  concisely. 

Rachel  nodded.    "Yes." 

"Bridge  or  clothes?" 

"Forty  pounds  for  Bridge — I  won  at  first,  you  know; 
I  made  quite  a  lot  last  summer;  and  the  rest,  clothes  for 
me  and  the  children;  and  then  I  bought  some  shares  in  a 
silver  mine  in  Arizona  that  Freddie  Welbeck  told  me 
about.  He  lost  hundreds,  poor  dear,  and  I  about  seventy 
pounds.  Wasn't  it  disgusting?" 

Very  deftly  and  quickly  Cuckoo  made  the  tea.  Then 
she  sat  back  and  looked  at  Rachel. 

"Poor  old  Ray,  but  where  are  the  clothes?"  she  asked. 

Rachel  blushed,  her  face,  which  had  kept  its  early 
promise  of  heaviness  and  was  too  thick  about  the  jaw 
and  throat,  a  little  sulky. 

"Oh,  they  weren't  much,  anyhow — only  a  couple  of 
smart  frocks  I  had  for  the  Billington-Sykes'  house-party 
last  August." 

Cuckoo  poured  out  the  tea. 

"You  don't  take  sugar,  do  you?  I  see.  Lady  Pelter 
and  Alison  weren't  at  the  Sykes',  and  Captain  Gascoyne 
was.  H'm!" 

"Oh,  Nicky,  don't  be  nasty  to  me.  If  you  had  the 
slightest  idea  how  dull  and  disgusting  my  life  is,  you 
wouldn't  grudge  me  a  little  pleasure  once  in  a  while." 

"I  don't  grudge  you  pleasure;  and  I  think  I  do  know 

371 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

how  dull  life  can  be,  my  dear.  Nobody  in  this  world 
was  ever  more  bored  than  I." 

"Of  course  you  were,  darling.  I'm  quite  sure  George 
was  worse  even  than  Alison.  Poor  Alison  at  least 
works." 

"George  worked,  too,"  flashed  out  Cuckoo  angrily,  "he 
worked  like  a  black,  and  don't  you  say  he  didn't.  And  if 
I  was  bored  then,  Lord  knows,  I'm  bored  enough  now." 

"Nicky!" 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  Cuckoo  drained  her  cup 
of  boiling  tea,  which  was  so  hot  that  it  brought  tears  to 
her  eyes. 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  I  didn't  mean  that,  and  I  know 
it  sounds  ridiculous  for  me  to  express  moral  sentiments 
of  any  kind,  but  I  do  wish,  Rachel,  you'd  drop  that  dis- 
gusting Billy  Gascoyne.  However,  it's  only  a  matter  of 
time,  so  I  needn't  lose  my  temper;  he'll  be  dropping  you 
before  long." 

Rachel  looked  sulky.  "You're  a  cat  this  afternoon. 
However,  there's  no  harm  in  Billy;  he's  a  dear  thing 
and  I'm  not  a  bit  in  love  with  him,  if  that's  what  you 
mean." 

"That  is  what  I  mean — one  of  the  things.  If  you 
were  I  shouldn't  mind  half  so  much,  but  pretending — 
working  oneself  up  to  emotion,  playing  games  with  one's 
own  feelings — I  think  it's  perfectly  loathsome.  However, 
you  must  let  me  ask  Peregrine  for  the  money;  he'll  lend 
it  you  like  a  shot  and  never  tell  a  soul.  He'll  forget  all 
about  it  in  a  day  or  two " 

"Thanks  very  much,"  Rachel  said  slowly,  "but 
couldn't  you  possibly  let  me  have  it  without  telling  him, 
Nicky?" 

"No."  Cuckoo's  voice  was  very  gruff  and  harsh.  "I 
haven't  a  penny  of  my  own.  Whenever  I  want  money 
he  gives  it  to  me,  no  matter  how  much,  but  I  have  no 

372 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

allowance,  and  he  made  me  promise  him  once  never  to 
lend  a  penny  to  anyone  without  telling  him." 

"Oh.  All  right,"  Rachel  went  on  reluctantly,  "if  I 
don't  pay  that  brute  of  a  woman,  she'll  summon  me,  and 
I  must  pay  Billy " 

"Rachel!"  barked  Cuckoo,  her  eyebrows  meeting  in 
her  old  hideous  frown.  "You  don't  mean  to  say  you've 
done  that !  Borrowing  money  of  a  man  you  are  having 
a  love-affair  with.  My  God !" 

Rachel  began  to  cry.  Cuckoo  put  the  tea-cups  away 
hastily.  "It's  perfectly  disgraceful  of  you,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  wonder  you're  afraid  to  have  Alison  know.  I  believe 
Peregrine  would  kill  me  if  I  did  such  a  thing." 

"Oh,  would  he?"  Rachel  snapped.  "7  didn't  run  away 
from  my  husband,  and  make  a  disgusting  scandal,  and  be 
in  all  the  papers,  anyhow." 

Cuckoo  closed  the  lid  of  the  tea-basket  very  softly  and 
put  it  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Then  she  rose,  seated 
herself,  and  took  the  oars  in  her  hands. 

"I  think,  as  your  hostess,"  she  said,  "that  this  picnic 
has  lasted  long  enough." 

In  unbroken  silence  she  pulled  back  to  the  little  boat- 
house,  and  when  she  had  fastened  the  boat,  stepped  out 
with  the  tea-basket  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Be  careful,"  she  said,  "the  boat  is  very  unsteady. 
Are  you  going  back  to  the  house,  Rachel?  I'm  not  com- 
ing just  yet." 

Rachel  stood  and  watched  her  as  she  went  off  to  the 
left,  towards  the  greenhouses,  light-footed  and  trim  in 
her  well-cut  coat  and  skirt. 

Before  dinner  Cuckoo  asked  her  husband  for  two  hun- 
dred pounds  to  lend  Rachel. 

"I  hope  Rachel  hasn't  been  playing  cards,"  Janeways 
said  gravely,  as  he  stood  in  front  of  the  library  fire. 

Cuckoo  didn't  answer. 

373 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"May  I  have  it?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  Rachel  is  your  friend  and  I  like  to 
have  you  help  her,  but  for  her  sake  and  poor  Jackson's 
you  must  make  her  understand  that  it  had  better  not 
occur  again." 

He  sat  down  at  the  writing-table  and,  unlocking  a 
drawer,  took  out  a  check-book.  It  was  not  the  great 
library  with  the  famous  collection  of  books,  but  a  smaller 
room,  which,  though  lined  with  books,  partook  more 
of  the  nature  of  a  study  or  a  smoking-room  than  of  a 
retreat  for  book-lovers. 

"Why  do  you  call  Alison  'poor  Jackson,'  Peregrine?" 

Janeways  signed  his  name  carefully,  blotted  the 
check  and  glanced  up  at  her  before  filling  in  the  counter- 
foil. 

"Because  I'm  sorry  for  him,  aren't  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sorry  for  Rachel,  most  certainly, 
but  I  hadn't  thought  of  Alison." 

Janeways  rose  and  handed  the  check  to  her. 

"There,  my  dear.    So  you  are  more  sorry  for  Rachel?" 

"Thanks,  Peregrine.  Yes,  I  am,  it's  dreadful  for  her 
to  be  so  poor." 

"Sometimes  I  wonder,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her 
in  the  grave,  thoughtful  way  that  she  had  noticed  seemed 
to  grow  with  him,  "whether  it's  right  that  everything 
should  be  judged  by  the  standard  of  money." 

''I  thought,"  she  returned  indifferently,  "that  it  was 
generally  conceded  that  that  standard  is  undoubtedly  bad ; 
bad,"  she  added  with  a  little  laugh,  "but  universal,  like 
drink." 

He  did  not  laugh  and  the  intentness  of  his  gaze  em- 
barrassed her. 

"Thanks  so  much  for  this,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "I'll 
go  and  give  it  to  her." 

She  left  the  room,  and  he  stood  for  a  while  just  where 

374 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

she  had  left  him,  his  fine  old  face  heavy  with  thought. 
Very  little  had  been  said  between  them  about  the  ques- 
tion of  Adrian  Taylor.  Janeways  was  a  man  who  asked 
very  few  questions,  and  Cuckoo  was  a  woman  who  gave 
very  little  unsolicited  information.  A  few  hours  after 
the  young  man's  departure,  Janeways  had  gone  to  his 
wife's  room  and  told  her  briefly  that  Taylor  had  gone. 

"You  sent  him?"  she  asked,  her  little  face  looking 
very  small  and  white  amid  her  loosened  hair  as  she  lay 
back  on  her  pillows. 

"Yes,  he  was  a  nuisance,  wasn't  he?" 

"He  was,  Peregrine." 

"Is  it  true,"  he  said,  "that  you  slipped  getting  out  of 
the  boat?" 

Cuckoo  closed  her  eyes,  arching  her  eyebrows  in  faint 
disgust  at  the  memory  of  the  incident. 

"No,"  she  returned;  "is  that  what  he  said?" 

"Yes,  that's  why  I  sent  him  away." 

That  was  all,  but  as  she  went  up  to  Rachel's  room 
with  the  check,  Cuckoo  recalled  the  little  scene.  Some 
dim  idea  about  her  husband  was  beginning  to  stir  at  the 
back  of  her  mind,  but  she  didn't  look  into  it  closely,  for 
she  was  training  herself,  half  unconsciously,  half  delib- 
erately, in  self-defence,  to  avoid  even  mentally  anything 
that  might  disturb  her. 

"Here's  the  money,  Rachel,"  she  said,  going  into  her 
friend's  room. 

Lady  Rachel  was  sitting  at  her  glass,  putting  the  fin- 
ishing touches  to  her  hair.  Cuckoo  laid  the  check  on 
the  table  and  there  was  a  short  silence,  which  she  herself 
broke  with  a  little  laugh. 

"You  owe  me  an  apology,"  she  said.  "You  were  abom- 
inably rude ;  but  I  hate  apologies,  so  don't  make  one.  To 
get  even  with  you,  I'll  tell  you  that  the  tops  of  your  arms 
are  entirely  too  fat.  You  must  exercise  more,  Ray." 

375 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"I  can't  exercise,"  Rachel  returned  fretfully,  "only 
the  rich  can  afford  exercise.  I  am  much  obliged  for  the 
money,  Nicky,  and  I'll  pay  it  back  as  soon  as  I  can,  little 
by  little." 

"I  shouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  Cuckoo  answered  care- 
lessly. "I  don't  think  Peregrine  would  like  you  to."  She 
looked  round  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and  the  discontent 
that  had  been  hanging  over  her  all  day  gave  way  to  a 
feeling  of  satisfaction.  Rachel's  silver  and  crystal  dress- 
ing-table things  were  scratched  and  dented;  her  silk 
petticoat  was  of  the  kind  seen  hanging  in  bunches  like 
monstrous  grapes,  all  exactly  alike,  in  big  stores;  the 
dressing-gown  over  the  back  of  her  friend's  chair  looked 
almost,  if  not  quite,  dirty,  and  the  evening  frock  on  the 
bed  had,  Cuckoo  knew,  for  the  second  time  undergone  the 
usually  depressing  process  of  freshening  up.  And  she, 
Cuckoo,  had  everything  in  the  world  she  had  always 
wanted ! 

"Do  you  remember,  Ray,  the  green  sunshade  you  gave 
me,  the  first  day  we  met?" 

"I  don't  know ;  no.    What  was  it  ?" 

And  even  this  small  fact  of  Lady  Rachel's  having 
forgotten  what  to  her  had  been  so  unimportant  and  to 
Cuckoo  so  remarkably  vital,  added,  without  her  knowing, 
to  Cuckoo's  sudden  sense  of  well-being  and  self-congratu- 
lation. Poor  Rachel !  Poor,  shabby,  untidy  Rachel,  with 
no  beautiful  "things." 

Cuckoo  was  very  gay  that  evening,  laughing  and  jest- 
ing in  a  way  that  pleased  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora,  and 
after  dinner  Miss  Flora  tripped  across  the  room  to 
Janeways  in  a  little  flutter  of  excitement. 

"You  see,  Peregrine,"  she  whispered,  flushing  her  pretty, 
shell-pink  flush,  "she's  glad  that  foolish  'young  man  has 
gone.  Did  you  see  the  smile  she  gave  you  as  we  left  the 
dining-room?" 

376 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Janeways'  own  smile  was  very  kind  and  pleasant  as  he 
looked  down  at  the  old  lady. 

"I  am  going  to  give  her  a  ruby,"  he  said,  "and  she  likes 
rubies." 

The  next  day  the  house-party  began  to  break  up,  and 
on  the  Monday  no  one  was  left  except  Miss  Flora  and  Miss 
Effie,  and  Mantepop,  who  was  going  back  to  London  with 
Janeways. 

At  the  last  minute  Cuckoo,  to  everybody's  surprise 
and  to  the  real  pleasure  of  the  aunts,  had  announced  her 
intention  of  not  accompanying  her  husband  and  his 
friend. 

"I'm  going  to  Roseroofs  for  a  couple  of  days,  if  the 
aunts  will  have  me,"  she  said  at  dinner.  "I'll  join  yon 
in  town  Thursday  or  Friday." 

Janeways  face  lighted  with  pleasure. 

"Good,"  he  said  heartily,  "that  will  be  delightful.  If 
you  like,  take  the  big  car  and  the  luggage  can  all  go  on 
it;  Marsh  can  put  it  up  at  the  'Grouse.'  If  you  like 
you  might  even  go  as  far  as  York  in  it — you  and  Marthe." 

Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  were  very  happy  over  this 
(decision,  and  the  next  morning  they  started  off  with 
Cuckoo,  Cuckoo's  maid  sitting  in  front  with  the  chauffeur. 

Janeways  had  not  forgotten  his  promise  about  the  ruby 
and  the  pearls,  and  as  he  said  good-bye  to  his  wife  he 
promised  her  that  he  would  have  them  ready  when  she 
arrived  in  town.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  new  look, 
which  he  had  seen  several  times  of  late  and  about  which 
he  had  wondered  each  time,  and  thanked  him. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,  Peregrine,"  she  said, 
"and "  She  broke  off. 

There  was  in  her,  as  the  car  rolled  along  up  over  the 
pass  towards  Wiskedale,  not  a  vestige  of  the  new  Nicoleta 
of  the  haughty  eyelids  and  the  cold  manner  she  had  dis- 

377 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

played  as  hostess  at  her  first  house-party.  She  seemed 
younger,  and  though  not  perhaps  happier,  yet  a  little 
more  merry,  and  she  was  honestly  glad  to  be  going  back 
to  her  old  home.  The  aunts  were  delighted  with  her. 

It  chanced  that  she  was  the  first  to  see  the  windows  of 
Roseroofs  shining  in  the  sun  as  they  rounded  the  shoulder 
of  the  hill.  She  stood  up  and  pointed. 

"Look,  oh  look!  There  it  is,  Aunt  Flora,  there  it  is, 
Aunt  Effie !  Oh,  the  dear  little  place !" 

Miss  Flora  made  a  mental  note  that  she  would  very 
soon  write  Janeways  a  long  letter,  encouraging  him  to 
hope  for  beautiful  changes  in  his  wife. 

As  the  car  passed  up  the  Dale  and  through  Warcop, 
Cuckoo  glanced  about  her  with  something  of  the  excite- 
ment of  a  child. 

"Oh,  there's  Joss  Skelton;  I  suppose  that's  his  new 
wife ;  heavens !  isn't  she  plain !  And  there's  Sarah  Ought- 
enshaw  with  a  new  baby.  Oh,  how  utterly  unchanged  it 
all  looks!" 

"Why  shouldn't  it  look  unchanged?"  asked  Miss  Effie 
austerely ;  "what  do  you  expect  to  happen  in  Warcop  in 
less  than  three  years?" 

It  was  true  that  Warcop  looked  as  if  nothing  but  the 
last  trump  could  ever  change  it ;  yet  Cuckoo  felt  that  she 
had  been  away  for  half  a  century. 

As  they  crossed  the  bridge  she  remembered  the  very  spot 
where  she  had  slipped  and  fallen  the  day  she  raced  down 
from  Thornby  Lodge  to  catch  George  on  his  way  to  the 
bus.  Her  face  hardened,  and  she  sat  silent  until  the  car 
had  reached  the  gate. 

Esther  Oughtenshaw,  now  wearing  a  thick,  fluted  white 
cap,  stood  at  the  gate,  welcome  and  delight  written  all 
over  her  face.  Greatly  to  her  own  surprise,  Cuckoo  put 
her  arms  round  the  old  woman's  neck  and  gave  her  a 
sound  kiss,  then  she  ran  on  into  the  house  ahead  of  her 

378 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

aunts  and  into  the  drawing-room.  It,  too,  had  not 
changed.  It  looked  small  and  shabby  and  faded,  but, 
almost  to  her  own  annoyance,  it  looked  home  to  her. 
Then  she  went  upstairs  to  the  blue  room,  which  was  to 
be  hers,  and  knelt  by  the  window,  looking  out  over  the 
Dale. 

When  Marthe,  Lady  Janeways'  smart  Parisian  maid, 
entered,  she  found  her  mistress  sitting  by  the  window  with 
a  languid  air.  An  English  maid  under  similar  circum- 
stances might  have  tried  to  curry  favor  with  her  lady 
by  expressing  wonder  as  to  how  that  lady  would  be  able 
to  make  herself  comfortable  in  such  cramped  and  old- 
fashioned  quarters.  But  Marthe  was  a  Frenchwoman,  so 
she  was  ecstatic  over  the  view ;  she  was  delighted  with  the 
charming  room;  she  even  went  to  the  length  of  admiring 
Esther  Oughtenshaw. 

Cuckoo  listened  languidly,  quite  seeing  through  the 
subtle  flattery.  But  she  enjoyed  the  quiet  supper  in  the 
old,  many-windowed  dining-room,  and  Esther's  tea-cakes 
were  praised  by  her  in  a  way  that  surprised  that  shrewd 
old  woman. 

"Miss  Coocoo's  changed,"  she  said  to  Nellie,  who  had 
not  married  and  was  still  with  them. 

"Aye,  she's  not  so  proud  now,  for  all  she's  sae  rich." 

Aunt  EfBe  and  Aunt  Flora  each,  separately  and  with- 
out expressing  the  thought  to  each  other,  wondered  if  she 
had  not  possibly  been  a  little  hard  on  Cuckoo  at  Tarring- 
Peverell.  She  was  delightfully  simple  and  natural  now; 
in  a  way  more  simple  and  natural  than  she  had  ever  been 
before.  They  did  not  know,  the  two  old  ladies,  that 
achievement  often  brings  with  it  a  simplicity  unknown  to 
the  striving  that  went  before  it. 


CHAPTER  xxxn 

THE  next  day  it  rained  and  the  ladies  sat  indoors. 
Cuckoo  had  relapsed  somewhat  into  her  Tarring- 
Peverell  manner,  but  the  day  passed  very  pleas- 
antly. She  sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  kitchen,  watching 
Esther  make  pastry  and  listening  to  the  old  woman's  tales 
of  her  own  childhood. 

"I  can  see  ye  now,  Miss  Coocoo — my  lady,  I  mean  to 
say — sitting  there  on  t'  table  on  t'  creepy  stool  to  keep 
your  frock  clean  the  day  Miss  Marcia  came." 

"I  can  remember  that  day,  Esther,"  Cuckoo  answered, 
leaning  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and  cupping  her  chin  in 
her  hands.  "But  you  needn't  call  me  'my  lady,'  I  like 
being  called  'Miss  Coocoo.' ' 

Esther  looked  at  her  shrewdly.  "You've  changed  a 
good  bit,"  she  said  slowly. 

Cuckoo  did  not  answer,  and  then  she  announced  briskly 
that  the  said  changes  were  due  to  her  old  age.  "I'm  five- 
and-twenty,  you  know,  Esther — a  quarter  of  a  century 
old !"  She  looked  round  the  kitchen,  in  which  not  a  single 
thing  had  changed,  and  then  suddenly  she  remembered 
Agnes. 

"Tell  me  about  Agnes  Vosper,"  she  said  suddenly. 
Esther  shook  her  head.  "I  can't  tell  you  about  Agnes 
Vosper,  Miss  Coocoo." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because" — the  old  woman  held  her  dough  in  one  hand 
while  she  freshly  spread  the  board  with  flour — "because," 
she  answered,  "there  is  no  Agnes  Vosper." 

For  some  reason  Cuckoo  felt  a  pang  as  of  guilt  at  these 

380 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

words.  She  remembered  Agnes's  miserable  face  on  the 
occasion  of  her  visit  to  the  farm.  It  was  she  who  had 
made  Agnes  marry  Vosper,  and  now — "What  do  you 
mean,  Esther?" 

Esther  laughed  as  she  rolled  out  her  pastry.  "I  mean 
that  she  has  been  married  to  Chris  Greening  for  over  a 
year.  Didn't  Miss  Flora  tell  you,  Miss  Coocoo?" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  Cuckoo  returned,  her  face  brighten- 
ing suddenly.  "I  was  so  sorry  for  her  the  last  time  I  saw 
her." 

Esther  looked  at  her  very  severely.  "You  remember 
whose  doing  it  was?"  she  asked. 

"I  do.  But  all's  well  that  ends  well,  and  they'd  have 
been  miserable  if  they'd  married  then,  Esther." 

"No,  they  wouldn't;  they  were  young  and  strong  and 
could  'a  worked,  and  t'was  a  bad  life  she  had  with  Ike 
Vosper.  Howsoever,  she's  happy  enough  now,  and  she's 
gotten  a  little  baby.  It  was  born  last  Sunday,  and  they're 
that  pleased,  the  two  of  'em !  Chris  Greening  goes  about 
as  if  he  was  the  only  man  since  Jacob  who  ever  got  a 
child." 

Cuckoo  did  not  ask  why  Jacob  was  honored  with  this 
distinguishing  allusion,  but  the  next  morning  being  a  fine 
day,  she  told  her  aunts  she  was  going  up  Cotherside  to 
see  Agnes  Greening's  baby. 

When  she  had  gone  Miss  Effie  and  Miss  Flora  looked  at 
each  other,  something  almost  like  dismay  in  their  faces, 
but  they  didn't  say  anything.  Miss  Effie  thought  that 
poor  Cuckoo  perhaps  was  grieving  because  she  had  no 
bairn  herself,  but  Miss  Flora,  deceitful,  fluttering,  wise 
Miss  Flora,  was  desolated  and  troubled.  Her  letter  to 
Sir  Peregrine  would,  she  felt,  be  less  easy  and  pleasant  to 
write  than  she  had  hoped. 

Meantime  Cuckoo  walked  down  the  hill  gaily — briskly; 
for  a  long  time  she  had  had  no  really  long  walk  and  she 

381 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

enjoyed  the  ease  and  lightness  with  which  her  feet  carried 
her.  Crossing  the  Green  she  met  and  spoke  to  several 
people  she  had  known  all  her  life;  she  gave  pennies  to 
Sarah  Oughtenshaw's  children  and  bought  a  London 
paper  at  the  little  shop  where,  as  a  child,  she  had  pur- 
chased slate-pencils  and  bull's-eyes.  The  very  smell  of 
the  shop  had  not  changed;  it  smelt  of  rubber,  and  print- 
er's ink,  and  peppermint,  and  stuffiness;  above  all,  of 
stuffiness.  The  window,  she  knew,  had  never  been  opened, 
and  the  constant  quick  opening  and  closing  of  the  door 
had  hardly  impaired  the  solidity  of  the  ancient  smell  that 
dwelt  in  the  corners.  She  held  her  breath,  as  she  had 
always  done,  as  she  made  her  purchases,  and  then  tore 
the  door  open  almost  frantically. 

As  she  crossed  the  Green,  she  saw  ahead  of  her  a  stout 
black  figure  in  an  absurd  hat.  It  was  Mr.  Wick,  the 
Methodist  minister.  She  had  forgotten  Mr.  Wick — hadn't 
thought  of  him  for  years,  of  him,  or  his  flat-nosed  wife,  or 
his  many  children,  and  here  he  was,  looking  exactly  as  he 
had  looked  ever  since  she  could  remember. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Wick,"  she  cried,  stopping  and 
holding  out  her  hand. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said  hastily,  as  he  took  off  his 
hat. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  she  asked,  laughing,  and  real- 
izing with  a  little  pang  of  pleasure  how  unlikely  it  was 
that  the  leggy,  badly-dressed  girl  of  the  old  days  should 
be  recognizable  to  the  good  man  in  the  smart  young 
woman  of  that  morning.  "I'm  Lady  Janeways — Cuckoo 
Blundell  from  Roseroofs." 

Over  Mr.  Wick's  fat  face  crept  a  blush  and  he  drew 
back,  looking  away  from  her. 

Cuckoo  stared  at  him.  Then  she  realized  what  it  meant. 
Mr.  Wick  was  not  an  unkind  man,  he  was  not  trying  to 
hurt  her,  he  was  in  fact  plainly  distressed  and  embar- 

382 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

rassed  by  the  situation,  but  Mr.  Wick,  the  Methodist 
minister  of  this  remote  Yorkshire  village,  plainly  consid- 
ered Lady  Janeways  to  be  a  person  not  fit  for  him  to 
shake  hands  with. 

"I — I — good  morning,  madam,"  he  stammered,  and 
with  a  little  sideways  duck  he  doubled  back  on  the  way 
he  had  come,  turning  his  toes  in  in  the  ridiculous  manner 
that  even  now,  in  the  midst  of  her  amused  anger,  she 
remembered  always  to  have  been  his.  She  went  on  down 
the  street  to  Crowner's  Bridge,  pausing  a  moment  to  look 
at  the  pool  of  olive-green  water  below  the  little  waterfall, 
down  the  footpath  that  led  to  the  road  to  Thornby  Lodge, 
her  head  high,  her  cheeks  lit  with  little  scarlet  flames. 
She  was  extremely  annoyed  with  Mr.  Wick,  and  her  an- 
noyance was  slow  in  dying  out.  She  would  have  liked, 
in  return  for  the  uncomfortable  moment  he  had  caused 
her,  to  do  him  some  injury;  she  hated  him.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  that  he  could  be  in  any  way  right  or  that 
she  was  unjust  in  her  anger.  She  despised  him  for  de- 
spising her. 

It  was  a  beautiful,  windy,  moorland  day.  The  sky  was 
full  of  huge  and  cumbrous  clouds  that  shouldered  and 
jostled  each  other  in  their  haste  westward;  it  was  a  day 
good  for  being  alive  and  for  walking. 

Christopher  Greening's  cottage,  she  knew,  was  about 
half  a  mile  beyond  Thornby  Lodge.  He  was  gamekeeper 
to  the  new  owner  of  that  estate,  and  on  reaching  the  lodge 
Cuckoo  passed  and  looked  up  at  the  house,  the  sunset 
glitter  of  whose  windows  was  a  part  of  her  memories  of 
Roseroofs.  Poor  old  Judge  Capel,  she  thought,  what  an 
awful  life  his  has  been — always  lonely,  always  cross,  al- 
ways ill.  He  had  been  kind  to  her  in  his  way,  and  her 
thoughts  of  him  in  return  were  kind,  as  she  raced  up  the 
road,  a  little  blue  figure  in  one  of  the  close-fitting  Mercury 
hats  she  affected.  She  was  glad  that  Agnes  was  happy  at 

383 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

last ;  poor  Agnes !  And  in  her  present  mood  she  con- 
gratulated herself  on  her  youthful  wisdom  in  preventing 
the  young  servant  from  marrying  her  impecunious  sweet- 
heart. It  had  not  done  Agnes  any  real  harm  to  wait  a 
few  years,  and  now  she  and  her  new  husband  were  com- 
fortably off  and  happy.  She  smiled  at  this  pleasant 
thought,  for  the  memory  of  poor  Agnes  Vesper's 
face  as  she  had  last  seen  it  at  the  gate  of  Set- 
tle Farm  had  sometimes  refused  to  be  banished  from  her 
mind. 

The  cottage,  a  mere  outcrop  of  the  stony  soil  from 
which  it  sprang,  was  reached  by  a  small  path  leading 
from  the  road,  through  the  heather  that  encroached  on 
all  sides  as  if  about  to  flow  in  across  the  small  garden  and 
overgrow  it  entirely.  Two  or  three  bright  milk-pans  were 
sweetening  in  the  sun  on  the  flagged  place  outside  the 
door,  and  bees  boomed  in  the  sweet-williams  and  stocks 
and  single  pinks,  from  which  the  sun  was  drawing  a  royal 
smell. 

It  was  all  very  quiet,  the  moorland  hush  hardly  dis- 
turbed by  the  existence  of  the  little  human  habitation  in 
its  midst.  A  rush-bottomed  chair  stood  on  the  flag-stones, 
and  Cuckoo  sat  down  without  knocking  and  looked  about 
her.  A  black  cat  with  white  paws  lay  on  top  of  the  stone 
wall  and  eyed  her  with  grave  indifference;  in  the  byre  at 
the  far  end  of  the  house  a  calf  moved  softly;  that,  and 
the  sound  of  the  bees  were 'the  only  things  that  disturbed 
the  old-fashioned,  sunny  silence.  The  very  hens  pecked 
quietly  in  the  grass,  or  strutted  about,  badly  balanced 
on  their  silly  legs  in  too  short  pantaloons.  Cuckoo  won- 
dered why  the  hen,  which  is  surely,  next  to  the  cow,  the 
most  valuable  of  domestic  creatures,  should  be  cursed 
with  so  idiotic  and  unprepossessing  an  appearance. 

Presently  she  heard  someone  coming,  and,  pushed  by 
an  instinct  that  she  was  never  able  to  explain,  she  rose 

384 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

and  stepped  behind  a  thick  clump  of  lilac  that  grew  on  the 
far  side  of  the  door. 

Through  the  leaves  she  could  see  Chris  Greening's  face 
as  he  came  across  the  moor  to  his  home.  He  had  been  a 
good-looking  youth  in  rather  a  silly  way,  and  now  he  was 
just  as  good-looking  and  just  as  silly-looking.  The  ex- 
pression on  his  face  as  he  came  up  the  path,  almost  on 
tip-toes,  was  one  that  Cuckoo  had  never  before  seen.  He 
stopped  outside  the  cottage  door,  sat  down  in  the  chair, 
and  unlaced  and  took  off  his  big,  clumsy  boots.  His  coarse, 
gray  woollen  socks  were,  she  could  see,  a  perfect  mosaic 
of  careful  darns.  Evidently  Agnes  took  good  care  of 
him.  Setting  the  boots,  which  looked  like  rhinoceros  heads 
so  crumpled  and  corrugated  were  they,  by  the  chair,  he 
tip-toed  softly  into  his  house.  After  a  moment  Cuckoo 
followed  him  and  stood  in  the  door. 

It  was  a  large  and  roomy  cottage;  to  her  right  was 
the  kitchen,  the  door  just  ajar;  to  her  left,  where  Chris 
went  in,  the  door  was  wide  open.  It  was  a  small  room, 
as  the  bedrooms  of  peasants  almost  always  are,  and  the 
bed  took  up  nearly  half  of  it.  In  the  bed,  under  a  narrow 
canopy  of  faded  chintz,  a  spotlessly-clean  patch-work 
quilt  over  her,  Cuckoo  saw  Agnes.  She  lay  with  her 
eyes  shut,  her  baby  tucked  into  the  crook  of  one  arm.  By 
her,  Chris  had  knelt  down,  and  was  looking  at  her  with 
the  nearest  thing  to  adoration  poor  Cuckoo  Janeways 
had  ever  seen  in  her  life.  She  stood  still,  afraid  to  move. 
Only  once  had  she  seen  anything  even  approaching  the 
look  that  was  in  the  face  of  this  poor,  common  man,  as 
he  knelt  by  his  wife  and  child,  and  that  was  in  George's 
big,  dim  eyes,  the  day  of  the  birth  of  their  little  girl. 
George  had  loved  her,  she  knew,  although  she  now  knew 
what  a  poor  thing  her  love  for  George  had  been,  but  even 
he,  even  on  that  day,  had  not  achieved  this  fine  rapture. 
Presently  Agnes  opened  her  eyes,  and  her  wan  face,  look- 

385 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ing  so  much  older  than  it  had  a  right  to  look,  lighted  up 
in  splendid  response  to  what  she  saw  in  her  husband's. 

"Is  she  asleep?"  Chris  whispered. 

"Aye,  luv,"  the  woman  smiled. 

A  few  minutes  later  when  Greening  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  fetch  his  wife  a  glass  of  milk,  there  was  no 
one  in  the  passage,  but  something  lay  on  the  floor.  He 
took  it  up  and  spread  it  out  on  his  big  brown  hand  in 
amazement.  It  was  a  filmy  square  of  batiste  and  in  the 
corner  was  a  little  monogram. 

First  Chris  Greening  looked  at  it,  then  he  smelt  it, 
then,  together  with  the  glass  of  milk,  he  took  it  back  to 
his  wife. 

"Look  what  I've  found  in  t'passage,  Agnes,"  he  said. 
"Someone's  been  in  but  there's  no  one  there  now." 

Agnes  looked  at  the  handkerchief.  "That  belongs  to 
our  Miss  Coocoo,  Chris,"  she  said.  "I  thought  I  heard 
something  before  I  opened  my  eyes " 

Greening  wondered  why  Cuckoo  had  not  made  her 
presence  known  but  Agnes  was  not  surprised. 

"Poor  Miss  Coocoo,"  she  said  softly,  holding  her  baby 
closer.  "I  know  why  she  didn*  coom  in " 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IT  was  only  about  half-past  eleven  when  Lady  Jane- 
ways    left    Chris    Greening's    cottage.      When    she 
reached  the  road  she  stood  for  a  moment  staring 
absently  before  her.    She  had  no  wish  to  go  back  to  Rose- 
roofs  ;  she  hated,  for  some  reason,  the  thought  of  crossing 
the  Green  at  Warcop ;  she  would  take  a  long,  long  walk. 
The  Aunts  would  not  expect  her,  for  she  had  told  them 
that  she  might  spend  the  whole  day  out  of  doors,  as  she 
had  so  often  done  in  her  girlhood,  and  in  her  pocket  she 
had  a  couple  of  bars  of  chocolate,  so  she  would  not  be 
hungry.    Below,  slightly  to  the  left,  lay  Warcop ;  a  little 
to  her  right  she  could  cross  the  river  near  Watlass  Mill 
and  go  up  Meldon  Side  and  walk  along  up  dale  as  far  as 
Clavers.    She  would  walk  along  the  Edge  and  return  home 
by  the  Green  Bench. 

So  she  went  down  the  hill  to  the  Dale,  walked  for  a 
couple  of  miles  along  the  shady  highroad,  and  then, 
crossing  by  the  Mill,  made  her  way  slowly  up  the  slope. 
The  mood  she  was  in  was  strange  to  her  and  a  little 
frightening.  It  was  absurd,  she  told  herself  angrily,  for 
her  to  have  a  lonely,  desolate  feeling  because  Chris  Green- 
ing had  looked  at  his  wife  with  something  in  his  eyes  that 
had  never  been  in  any  eyes  that  looked  on  her.  It  was 
ridiculous  that  the  glory  and  comfort  of  her  husband's 
wealth  should  have  seemed  to  depart  from  her  as  she  stood 
in  the  poor  little  moorland  cottage.  She  had  tried  the 
equivalent  of  her  class  for  love  in  a  cottage,  and  a  miser- 
able failure  it  had  been.  Suppose  she  had  been  still  living 
in  that  awful  Whistler  Mansions  with  only  one  servant, 

387 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

a  constantly  changing  incarnation  of  exactly  the  same 
spirit,  how  wretched  she  would  have  been!  She  caught 
hold  of  her  pearls,  which  she  always  wore  under  her 
blouse,  and  remembered  the  ones  poor  old  Uncle  Adolph 
had  given  her,  and  which  she  had  sold  to  a  pawnbroker 
in  order  to  have  a  fling  in  Paris.  If  she  had  gone  back, 
everything  would  have  been  the  same,  only  there  would 
have  been  no  pearls !  She  would  have  had  to  have  under- 
clothes even  worse  than  Rachel's,  and  ready-made-by-the- 
hundred  petticoats.  Rachel's  best  patent  leather  shoes 
had  an  incipient  crack  across  one  toe;  Cuckoo's  would 
have  had  cracks.  And,  oh,  the  misery  of  going  in  buses ! 
Cuckoo  had  discovered  in  herself,  on  her  return  to  town 
after  her  marriage,  a  full-grown  and  vigorous  hatred  of 
buses.  Probably  fastidious  people  never  like  this  demo- 
cratic mode  of  progress,  but  Cuckoo  hated  it  with  a 
hatred  not  only  of  mean  fastidiousness,  but  also  of  the 
finer  dislike  of  crowding  and  contact  that  naturally  ex- 
ists in  people  used  to  noble  distances  and  clear,  unpolluted 
air.  She  remembered  how  she  had  loathed  the  King's 
Road  on  a  wet  night  in  a  crowded  bus.  George  had 
laughed  at  her  gently,  and  not  at  all  unkindly,  for  this 
daintiness,  but  the  idea  had  been  almost  an  obsession  with 
her.  As  she  reached  Meldon  Edge  and  turned  off  west- 
wards, following  the  narrow,  deep-rutted  path  that  had 
probably  been  first  made  by  the  Romans  in  the  earliest 
days  of  the  lead  mines,  she  remembered  one  night  in  par- 
ticular when  she  and  George  had  been  dining  somewhere, 
and  she  sat  in  a  bus  in  evening  dress  that  was  a  relic  of 
her  South  Audley  Street  days,  angrily  withdrawing  into 
herself  from  a  half-drunken  man  on  one  side,  and  a  sway- 
ing, gin-flavored  woman  who  was  hanging  on  to  a  strap. 
It  was  one  of  the  first  occasions  on  which  George  had 
spoken  sharply  to  her,  for  she  had  muttered  under  her 
breath  some  words  expressive  of  her  intense  discomfort 

388 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

and  loathing  of  everyone  in  the  bus,  and  he  had  an- 
swered : 

"It's  no  worse  for  you,  Cuckoo,  than  it  is  for  every- 
body else.  If  you  can  catch  that  point  of  view  it  might 
help  you." 

She  was  hurt  and  angry,  but  it  was  in  the  very  early 
days  of  their  marriage  and  reconciliation  had  followed. 

What  was  the  little  rhyme  he  had  made  the  next  even- 
ing as  they  sat  over  the  fire  happily  together  and  the 
wind  beat  on  the  big  north  window  of  the  studio  ?  It  was, 
so  far  as  she  knew,  George's  only  venture  into  the  King- 
dom of  Poesy,  and  she  had  thought  the  little  verse  not 
without  a  queer,  George-like  charm.  She  had  learnt  it  by 
heart,  she  remembered,  and  now  she  had  forgotten.  Al- 
though it  had  been  quiet  in  the  Dale,  the  presage  of  the 
morning's  scudding  clouds  was  more  than  fulfilled  up  on 
the  heights.  A  strong  wind  on  which  she  could  almost  lie 
back,  carried  her  along  the  top,  flocks  of  cloud-shadows 
wandered  over  the  hillsides  as  if  looking  for  a  ghostly 
shepherd.  After  a  while,  Cuckoo,  out  of  breath  and  tired, 
sat  down  in  a  hollow  to  rest.  It  was  a  very  small  hollow 
and  gave  her,  as  she  sat  in  it,  a  comfortable,  tucked-in 
feeling.  The  sun  came  out  brightly,  all  the  shadows  disap- 
peared, and  then,  one  by  one,  she  saw,  as  she  leaned  over 
the  edge  of  her  nest,  the  incorporeal  flocks  come  back. 

She  tried  to  think  about  her  ruby,  but  it  seemed  an 
unsubstantial  thing  and  slipped  away  from  her  repeat- 
edly. She  would  be  going  to  town  the  next  day,  and  the 
ruby  would  be  waiting  for  her  at  St.  James's  Square.  She 
had  always  been  glad  that  Janeways'  town  house  was  sit- 
uated here  in  the  very  seats  of  the  mighty.  She  thought 
of  the  huge  hall  and  its  fine  old  staircase ;  it  was  a  mag- 
nificent house.  Although  Janeways  had  not  lived  in  it  for 
some  three  years,  it  would  be,  she  knew,  thanks  to  his  habit 
of  keeping  everything  he  owned  in  most  meticulous  repair, 

389 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

in  as  perfect  order  as  if  a  passionately  devoted  mistress 
had  never  left  it.  Cuckoo,  of  course,  could  not  be  pre- 
sented on  her  marriage,  but  her  first  Season  in  London 
was,  for  all  that,  going  to  be  a  very  brilliant  one. 

She  tried  to  ponder  all  these  things  as  she  sat  in  the 
little  hollow,  looking  over  the  edge  across  the  Dale.  But 
the  side  of  a  hill  on  a  fine  summer's  day  is  not  a  place  in 
which  such  splendors  and  satisfactions  can  for  long  occupy 
the  foreground  of  one's  thoughts.  And  then  a  lark  began 
to  sing.  She  could  see  it  in  the  sky  and  she  lay  back  in 
the  heather  and  listened  to  it.  So  Agnes  was  quite  happy 
— Agnes  and  Chris,  with  his  foolish,  wonderful  face.  Of 
course  they  had  the  thousand  pounds  that  old  Vosper  had 
left  his  widow,  but  it  could  not  be  that,  she  realized,  that 
made  Chris's  face  so  shine  with  happiness.  Of  course  he 
loved  her,  but  love,  after  all,  did  not  make  men  look  like 
that.  As  to  the  baby,  whose  little  black  head  she  had  seen 
in  the  hollow  of  Agnes's  arm,  everybody  had  babies  and 
the  first  one  always  seemed  remarkable  to  its  parents. 
No,  it  could  not  be  that.  Then  she  fell  to  wondering 
about  the  poem  George  had  written  about  the  children  in 
the  buses ;  how  did  it  go  ?  It  was  five  years  ago,  so  no 
wonder  she  couldn't  remember  it,  she  thought,  with  an  im- 
patient frown — and  then,  quite  suddenly,  she  did  remem- 
ber it. 

But  oh!  the  pitiful  small  babes  who  jog 

Late  in  the  night  in  buses  going  home. 

Their  little  faces  graying  from  fatigue, 

Their  eyes  half  shut  and  troubled,  as  they  lie 

Fitfully  staring  at  the  ugly  light; 

Their  chilled,  appealing  hands,  like  little  paws, 

Seeking  so  weakly,  yet  so  yearningly 

The  mother's  arm,  too  tired  to  clasp  them  close; 

Their  weary  heads  wobbling  on  weary  necks 

Like  pale  wild-flowers  the  frost  has  kissed  too  soon. 

.  .  .  Oh,  God!  the  pitiful  small  babes  who  jog 

Late  in  the  night  in  buses  going  home 

390 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

She  said  the  lines  aloud,  slowly  and  softly,  and  sud- 
denly she  rose,  a  ready-made  decision  in  her  mind.  She 
would  walk  on  to  Clavers  and  go  to  see  old  Mary  and  get 
news  of  George.  It  had  affected  her  very  little  two  or 
three  days  ago  to  hear  from  one  of  her  aunts  that  George 
had  been  ill,  but  now  she  felt  she  must  know  how  he  was. 
On  looking  at  her  watch,  she  was  surprised  to  find  that 
she  had  sat  for  two  hours  in  her  warm  nook ;  also  that  she 
had  not  noticed  the  dulling  and  leadening  of  the  sky. 
Only  a  small  patch  of  blue  remained,  and  the  countryside 
was  almost  shadowless  in  the  absence  of  sun. 

Lunch  time  had  come  and  gone  and  she  was  hungry. 
So  she  walked  along,  battling  against  the  wind,  which 
had  shifted  a  little  and  was  beating  her  towards  the  edge 
of  the  high  place  where  she  walked,  eating  chocolate  and 
humming  under  her  breath.  It  was  quite  natural  that 
being  at  Roseroofs  should  have  brought  George  to  her 
mind  more  vividly  than  he  had  been  for  years,  she  told 
herself,  and  besides,  it  would  be  a  kind  and  friendly  thing 
to  go  and  see  his  old  nurse.  She  paused  where  Roseroofs 
lay  below  embosomed  in  trees ;  in  the  garden  there  moved 
something  like  a  fly  which  she  knew  must  be  one  of  the 
Aunts.  It  would  please  them,  she  thought,  if  she  went 
down  to  Widdybank  to  stand  for  a  moment  by  her  fath- 
er's grave,  perhaps  on  her  way  back.  A  mile  and  a  half 
further  on  she  came  to  the  old,  ruined  mine  where  she  and 
George  had  had  a  talk  on  their  way  home  from  Mary 
Watlass's  the  last  Christmas  she  had  spent  at  Roseroofs. 
Cold  Comfort,  it  was  called,  and  cold  comfort  it  certainly 
looked,  gray  and  ugly  in  the  sullen  afternoon  light. 

For  many,  many  years  no  work  had  been  done  there 
and  the  gray  hollows  and  trenches  were,  in  a  measure, 
softened  by  the  gradual  accumulation  of  bracken  and  the 
hardier  kind  of  wild  plants,  but  nothing  could  do  any 
good  to,  or  soften,  the  blank  ugliness  of  the  piles  and 

391 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

cataracts  of  lustreless,  useless  gray  stones  that  lay  about 
in  all  directions.  A  sort  of  desolation  seemed  to  hang 
over  the  place  and  to  chill  the  heart  of  its  beholder.  At 
the  foot  of  it,  almost  directly  opposite,  a  mile  or  so  away, 
Widdybank  Church  tower  pointed  a  squat  finger  towards 
heaven.  If  Cuckoo  went  down  that  way  she  could  go 
through  the  churchyard  and  pay  the  little  sentimental 
visit  that  would  please  her  aunts — and  for  some  reason 
she  felt  that  afternoon  as  if  she  would  like  to  please  some- 
body. There  was  a  path  through  the  ugly,  desolate  place, 
very  rough  and  broken,  but  she  could  find  it,  she  thought ; 
and  after  leaving  the  churchyard  she  could  go  along  the 
side  of  the  hill  without  mounting  again,  to  Clavers. 

As  she  stood  there,  looking  very  small  and  girlish  in 
her  short  skirt,  a  drop  of  rain  fell  on  her  face  and,  looking 
up,  she  saw  that  the  clouds  had  lowered  and  darkened  in 
a  menacing  way  and  that  a  sharp  rain-storm  was  coming. 
A  few  feet  below  her  there  had  been,  she  knew,  the  remains 
of  an  old  miner's  hut,  half  dug  out  of  the  hill,  half  roofed 
over  with  ancient  and  rotting  boards.  There  was  prob- 
ably little  of  it  left  by  now,  but  it  would  afford  at  least 
a  measure  of  shelter,  and,  running  down  the  slope,  she 
looked  for  it.  It  was  indeed  ruined  now,  the  timber  lay 
in  bits  on  the  ground,  half  overgrown  with  weeds  and 
creepers,  and  only  by  pressing  herself  close  against  the 
inner  wall  could  Cuckoo  find  any  protection  from  the  rain, 
which  now  came  down  thickly.  Luckily,  the  wind  came 
from  behind  her,  so  she  had,  as  she  stood  there,  though 
uncomfortable,  an  odd  feeling  of  cosiness.  The  shower 
was  sure  not  to  last  long,  she  thought,  and  it  was  a  curi- 
ous and  not  uninteresting  experience,  standing  there  dry 
in  the  abandoned,  wet  place.  And  then  quite  suddenly, 
looking  off  to  her  right  where  a  tangle  of  undergrowth 
marked  the  edge  of  the  unbroken  moorland,  she  saw  George 
Loxley,  as  white  as  death,  sitting  on  the  ground  leaning 

392 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

against  a  tree,  his  hat  off,  his  hands  lying  limply  by  his 
sides.  For  a  moment  she  could  not  believe  her  eyes. 
George  had  been,  in  her  thoughts,  so  plainly  and  naturally 
in  Chelsea,  that  she  stared  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  ghost. 
Then  she  noticed  that  not  only  did  he  not  see  her,  but  that 
he  was  in  some  way  badly  hurt,  and  she  walked  out  into 
the  rain  towards  him. 

"George,"  she  said,  "George,  what's  the  matter?"  For 
a  moment  he  did  not  answer,  his  eyes  didn't  open,  and  she 
repeated  her  question. 

"What's  the  matter,  George?     You've  hurt  yourself." 

Then  his  gray  eyes,  dark  with  pain,  looked  up  at  her. 

"I've  hurt  my  knee — I  think  it's  put  out — sorry, 
Cuckoo,"  and  closing  his  eyes,  he  fainted  away  without 
more  ado. 

When  he  came  to  he  looked  up  at  her  as  she  knelt  by 
him,  bathing  his  temples  with  a  rain-soaked  handkerchief, 
and  smiled  faintly. 

"The  same  old  scent,"  he  murmured. 

She  laughed  nervously.  "Yes,  Aunt  Marcia  gave  me 
a  bottle  of  it  my  first  birthday  in  London;  I've  used  it 
ever  since.  How  funny  that  you  remember." 

"Oh,  I  remember,"  he  answered  quietly. 

Then  suddenly  they  both  remembered.  Cuckoo  rose. 
"I'm  afraid  the  pain  is  awful,"  she  said  formally,  "and 
how  on  earth  are  you  ever  going  to  get  down  the  hill?" 
She  had  forgotten  that  he  no  longer  lived  at  the  Vicarage. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  down  the  hill.  I  want  to  get  to 
Clavers.  I'm  staying  with  Mary  Watlass." 

"Oh !"  There  was  a  pause,  while  the  rain  pelted  down, 
gradually  making  little  pools  among  the  piles  of  stones 
that  would  later  shine  in  the  renewed  light. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "if  I  could  help  you?  Can  you 
stand  at  all?" 

He  struggled  up  and  stood  leaning  against  a  tree,  his 

393 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

right  leg  crooked,  his  brows  drawn  together  with  almost 
unbearable  pain. 

"Suppose  I  run  to  Clavers  and  send  someone  back  for 
you,"  she  suggested.  "Oh,  George,  you  do  look  ill!" 

He  tried  to  laugh,  and  the  attempt  was  rather  a  failure. 

"Oh,  it's  not  the  pain  that  makes  me  look  so  bad,"  he 
said.  "I've  been  ill  with  pneumonia  and  came  up  here  for 
the  air.  I  only  arrived  yesterday,  and  in  a  few  days  I 
shall  be  all  right." 

After  a  moment  they  decided  to  try  and  walk  along  the 
path,  which  led  almost  without  ascending  from  the  lead 
mine  to  Clavers.  George  laid  his  arm  over  Cuckoo's 
shoulders,  and  leaning  on  his  stick,  which  luckily  was  a 
stout  ash  with  a  broad  crook,  hobbled  along. 

They  walked  in  silence  for  a  while,  a  silence  broken 
only  by  occasional  questions  from  her  or  an  irrepressible 
groan  from  him. 

The  rain  had  settled  down  steadily,  and  suddenly  George 
stopped,  and  with  a  gesture  painfully  familiar  to  her,  put 
up  his  coat  collar. 

She  burst  into  a  nervous  laugh,  almost  a  giggle. 

"It  has  its  funny  side,  hasn't  it?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded:  "Yes,  I  suppose  it  has.  Why  did  you 
laugh?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Their  progress  was  naturally  very  slow,  for  his  knee 
had  received  a  severe  strain,  and  after  a  while  the  embar- 
rassment that,  but  for  his  disabled  condition,  must  in- 
evitably have  distressed  them  on  this  their  first  meeting 
since  he  had  left  London  for  Cyprus  nearly  three  years 
ago,  fell  on  them  both  at  the  same  time.  Naturally 
Cuckoo,  being  a  woman,  tried  to  cover  her  sense  of  awk- 
wardness by  talking. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  her  voice  husky  and  deep, 
"I  was  thinking  about  you  not  more  than  an  hour  ago. 

394 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Do  you  remember  the  verse  you  wrote  about  the  babies 
in  one  of  those  horrible  King's  Road  buses?" 

They  had  paused  to  rest  for  a  moment,  and  George 
looked  at  her  mildly,  his  eyes  full  of  a  vague  questioning 
that  long  ago  she  had  loved,  and  which,  in  the  days  she 
had  just  mentioned,  the  Chelsea  days,  had  so  exasperated 
her. 

"I  don't  remember  the  verse,"  he  said,  "but  I  remember 
the  babies,  poor  little  things." 

"Well,  the  poetry  was  really  quite  good — at  least,  I 
thought  so — though  Peregrine  says  I'm  the  worst  judge 
of  poetry  alive." 

She  broke  off  short ;  Janeways'  name  had  seemed  thor- 
oughly out  of  place  between  them. 

"Have  you  written  any  more — poetry,  I  mean?" 

As  she  looked  at  him,  a  deep  flush  darkened  his  thin, 
white  face  and  the  end  of  his  nose  stirred.  Cuckoo's  heart 
gave  a  little  throb. 

"I  have  written  only  one  thing  since  then,"  he  returned, 
in  a  voice  which  the  word  "grave"  expresses  inade- 
quately. "Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  was?" 

She  looked  at  him,  completely  puzzled,  and  he  began 
slowly : 

"It  is  an  epitaph,"  he  said,  "on  a  little  baby: 

"Spring  brought  her,  little  and  serene  and  grave, 
And  like  a  flower.    She  drew  one  wondering  breath, 
Nestled  once  closely  to  her  mother's  side, 
Then  closed  her  eyes,  and  kissed  the  face  of  Death." 

As  he  ended  the  lines  he  burst  into  a  fit  of  coughing, 
leaning  against  a  wall.  Cuckoo  drew  away  from  him. 

"You  mean  you  wrote  that  for — for  ours?"  she  asked, 
her  words  oddly  divided,  each  one,  it  seemed,  quite  alone. 

"Yes ;  I  had  the  stone  put  up  and  thought  I  would  like 

395 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

just  something  on  it.  I've  put  'Delia,5  for  my  grand- 
mother; I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind " 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  then  she  answered: 

"Oh,  George,  no,  I  don't  mind.  I  was  thinking  to-day," 
she  added,  "that  she  would  have  been  four " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  as  she  spoke,  and,  perhaps 
for  the  second  or  third  time  in  his  life,  he  saw  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"I  was  thinking  to-day  how  dreadful  it  was  that  I've 
never  cared — about  the  baby,  I  mean." 

Loxley  drew  away  from  her. 

"Come,"  he  said,  with  gentle  coldness,  "we  must  be 
getting  on." 

It  seemed  to  Cuckoo  that  he  was  being  brutal.  If  she 
wished  to  lay  her  hand  on  anybody's  arm  like  that,  whose 
arm,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  could  she  lay  it  on  if  not  his  ? 
It  was  preposterous  the  way  he  drew  aside.  She  flung 
up  her  head  and  gave  a  little  shrug. 

"I'd  rather  not  talk  about — about  it  all,  Cuckoo,  if 
you  don't  mind,"  he  continued.  "I  don't  mean  it  un- 
kindly, but — I'd  rather  not." 

They  walked  slowly  on. 

George  said  no  more,  but  she  felt  that  he  felt  that  the 
little  grave,  with  the  poor  little  verse  on  it,  was  his,  ex- 
clusively his,  and  that  she  was  an  outsider,  an  intruder. 
Yet  he  had  told  her  the  verse,  which  otherwise  she  would 
never  have  known. 

"George,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "you've  never  said  an 
unkind  word — written,  I  mean — to  me  about  what  I  did. 
I  don't  suppose  you  cared  much,  but  still  it  must  have 
hurt  you  a  little."  She  paused. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  as  he  hobbled  along.  "I  should  like 
to  tell  you,  not  only  because  I'm  cold  and  wet  and  tired, 
but  I  think  I've  often  wanted  to,  deep  down.  I'm  sorry 
about  those  times  in  Chelsea.  I  think  it  was  more  my 

396 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

fault  than  jours,  and  I'd  like  to  know  that  you  forgive 
me,  Cuckoo." 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "Of  course,"  she  answered 
wearily,  as  they  reached  the  end  of  the  path  and  stood, 
separated  from  the  little  village  only  by  a  field,  at  the 
other  side  of  which  stood  Mary  Watlass's  cottage. 

"I  think  I'll  sit  down  here,  Cuckoo,  if  you  don't  mind. 
I  can't  stand  much  more — of  the  pain,  I  mean,"  he  added, 
as  she  turned.  "Do  you  mind  going  and  telling  Mary, 
and  she'll  send  someone  to  help  me  to  the  house." 

He  sat  down  on  the  sodden  grass,  and  leant  exhaustedly 
against  the  wall. 

"George,"  she  said  sharply,  stricken  with  a  sudden  fear, 
"you  haven't  got  consumption,  have  you?"  He  didn't 
open  his  eyes. 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  have.  I've  had  some  very  bad 
colds — the  winters  are  dreadful  in  London  now." 

"Then  why,"  she  asked,  forgetting  for  the  moment  what 
she  so  well  knew,  "why  don't  you  go  to  Italy  or  the  South 
of  France?  It's  ridiculous  your  allowing  3rourself  to  get 
so  thin !" 

At  this  remark  he  looked  at  her,  smiling  faintly,  and 
she  saw  how  deeply  changed  his  face  was. 

"That's  what  the  doctors  all  say — that  I  must  live  in 
a  good  climate  and  keep  out  of  the  fogs.  But  you  may 
remember  that  my  means  hardly  go  that  far." 

Horrified  at  her  own  gaucheness,  ashamed  that  she 
must  seem  to  him  to  have  acquired  with  dreadful  quickness 
the  rich  woman's  belief  that  everyone  has  money,  she  stam- 
mered out  an  apology  that  made  matters  much  worse,  and 
bolted  off  down  the  Edge.  She  did  not  come  back  with 
old  Mary  Watlass — who,  despite  the  rain,  herself  came 
out  bareheaded  to  the  succor  of  her  old  nursling — but 
walked  to  the  tiny  inn  and  persuaded  the  host  to  drive  her 
home  down  dale  in  his  cart.  She  sat  huddled  over  the  fire, 

397 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

waiting  until  he  should  be  ready  to  start.  It  is  a  pity 
that  Janeways  could  not  have  been  an  invisible  witness  of 
her  progress  across  the  hill  with  George,  and  it  is  an  even 
greater  pity  that  he  was  not  in  the  stuffy  little  inn  parlor, 
where  his  wife  sat  staring  into  the  fire. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

LADY  JANEWAYS  arrived  at  King's  Cross  at 
about  six  the  following  evening  and  was  met  by 
Giulio  with  a  note  from  his  master.  In  the  car  she 
read  the  note,  which  was  merely  a  few  words  to  express 
her  husband's  regret  at  being  unable  to  meet  her  and  his 
hope  that  when  she  reached  the  house  his  reason  for  so 
failing  in  courtesy  would  cause  her  to  forgive  him. 

A  little  shiver  of  pleasure  ran  over  her  as  she  tore  the 
note  up  and  dropped  the  bits  out  of  the  window.  It  was 
the  ruby,  of  course,  which,  in  some  way,  was  detaining  him. 
She  had  always  wanted  a  large  single  ruby ;  she  could  see 
it  in  her  mind's  eye  now,  as  they  sped  through  the  ugly, 
sordid  streets  towards  the  more  comfortable  part  of  the 
town.  It  would  be  pear-shaped,  and  of  the  pigeon-blood 
color  that  surely,  of  all  colors,  is  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful. She  felt  that  its  narrow  end  would  be  held  by  a  little 
cap  of  diamonds,  and  that  it  would  depend  from  a  chain 
almost  invisible  in  its  tenuity.  Surely  such  a  gift  was  a 
much  finer  possession  than  the  Bag  of  Saffron !  And  then 
her  mind,  tired  yet  unresting,  like  a  captive  squirrel,  went 
back  to  its  little  treadmill  of  thought. 

George's  mother  had  died  of  laryngeal  consumption.  He 
had  always  been  perilously  delicate  and,  in  his  displeasure 
at  her  inconsiderate  suggestion  about  his  spending  his 
winters  in  the  South  of  France,  he  had — and  she  knew, 
with  inadvertence — given  away  the  fact  that  his  doctor 
had  urged  on  him  this  very  concession.  George  was  a  man 
so  obviously  poor  that  no  sensible  doctor,  she  felt,  could 
possibly  have  ordered  him  to  a  warm  climate  unless  his 

399 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

health  was  seriously  enough  affected  to  make  such  a  step 
absolutely  necessary. 

"I'm  not  sorry  I  left  him,"  she  thought  fiercely,  "and 
it  was  only  the  way  his  poor  nose  quivered  that  made  me 
feel  as  I  did  for  a  moment.  But  he  needs  another  climate, 
and  another  climate  he  shall  have."  And  at  the  thought 
of  her  husband's  splendid  liberality  her  heart  warmed  to- 
wards the  old  man  on  whose  kindness  she  could  so  safely 
count.  She  would  ask  Sir  Peregrine  for  five  hundred 
pounds;  she  would  have  Rachel  send  this  five  hundred 
pounds  to  the  old  Scottish  banker,  Mr.  Fleming,  and 
through  him  the  money  could  be  made  over  to  George 
without  his  ever  having  a  suspicion  from  whom  it  really 
came.  "If  I  knew  he  was  safe  in  some  nice,  sunny  place, 
I  shouldn't  worry  about  him,"  she  thought,  as  the  car 
drew  up  at  the  house  in  St.  James's  Square. 

For  a  few  moments,  in  the  revival  of  her  interest  and 
delight  in  her  own  material  welfare,  under  the  influence 
of  the  splendid  old  house  that  was  hers,  Cuckoo  forgot 
all  about  Loxley  and  his  threatened  lungs.  She  had  been 
in  the  house  once  before,  but  only  to  decide  which  room 
she  would  have,  and  the  painters  had  been  at  work  on  that 
occasion  throughout  the  lower  floor,  so  that  she  had  been 
able  to  see  but  little  of  the  dignified  glories  of  her  new 
home.  But  now  it  came  on  her  as  if  a  new  revelation  of 
what  she  had  achieved  were  being  made  to  her. 

Sir  Peregrine  had  not  yet  come  in,  but  tea  was  in  the 
white  drawing-room.  The  white  drawing-room,  a  vast 
apartment  that  its  owner  liked  less  than  any  room  in  the 
house,  pleased  its  new  mistress,  and  she  felt,  as  she  sat  at 
the  tea-table — a  tea-table  on  which  every  article  was  in 
itself  old  and  beautiful,  as  well  as  of  value — very  happy. 

The  minute  Peregrine  came  in  she  would  tell  him  about 
George.  She  knew  he  would  be  sorry,  and  she  hadn't  a 
doubt  of  his  willingness  to  help  her  in  the  matter. 

400 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

When  she  had  had  her  tea,  she  rang  for  the  house- 
keeper and  went  all  over  the  house.  Compared  to  it,  the 
house  in  South  Audley  Street  looked  small  -and  almost 
shabby,  for  Cuckoo  did  not  know  that  poor  old  Uncle 
Adolph's  taste  had  been  a  thousand  times  finer  than  the 
taste1  of  the  various  Janeways  who  had  devised  and  ac- 
complished, in  their  different  periods,  the  magnificence  that 
so  pleased  her. 

Her  own  bedroom  Janeways  had  had  done  recently, 
and  it  was  perfect.  But  Cuckoo,  although  she  had  learned 
much  of  taste  from  her  uncle,  would  have  preferred  some- 
thing a  little  more  brilliant  than  the  sober  restraint  of  its 
pearl-gray  background.  Marthe,  however,  was  in  her  ele- 
ment, and  cried  upon  Heaven  and  various  saints  to  behold 
the  glories  on  all  sides. 

Presently  the  little  telephone  on  the  writing-table  in 
Cuckoo's  sitting-room  rang  loudly,  and  Janeways  asked 
if  he  might  come  up.  He  came  in,  a  moment  later,  looking 
pleased  to  see  her  as  he  always  was,  something  almost  of 
excitement  in  his  dark  eyes. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  as  they  sat  down  on  a  sofa,  "that 
you  will  like  what  I  have  for  you.  It  was  by  a  piece  of 
luck  that  I  got  it,  and  I  believe,  although  Masterton  was 
very  discreet,  that  it  has  belonged  to  a  Russian  Grand 
Duchess." 

Cuckoo's  eyes  sparkled.    "Oh,  do  let  me  see !" 

"First  tell  me  how  the  Aunts  are,  and  how  you  are 
yourself." 

"Splendid,  all  of  us.    Now  let  me  see." 

"You  must  take  off  that  blouse  first.  This  thing  must 
be  worn  against  your  skin " 

Pulling  the  blouse  from  under  her  skirt,  she  tore  it  off, 
and  threw  it  on  the  floor,  standing  in  the  paling  light  with 
her  thin  but  shapely  shoulders  bare.  Janeways  gazed 
at  her  for  a  moment,  an  odd  look  of  regret  in  his  eyes. 

401 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Then  he  opened  a  black  leather  case  he  had  taken  from 
his  pocket,  and,  with  an  end  of  the  thin  chain  in  either 
hand,  held  the  jewel  up.  From  where  she  stood,  it  was 
full  of  the  late  afternoon  light  and  glowed  like  a  great 
drop  of  crimson  liquid;  it  was  far  larger  than  one  had 
expected  it  to  be,  and  far  more  beautiful,  for  in  all  her 
life  she  had  never  seen  such  a  stone. 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

He  fastened  it  round  her  neck  and  stood  smiling  at  her. 

"Oh,  Peregrine,"  she  gasped,  "how  perfectly  glorious !" 

He  laughed.  "Go  and  look  in  the  glass,  you  peacock. 
It  suits  you  well,  you  little  dark  thing ;  it  suits  you  well !" 

Cuckoo,  her  face  flaming  with  excited  joy,  looked,  even 
to  herself,  prettier  than  ever  before,  and,  running  to  her 
husband,  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him 
with  real  feeling.  He  laughed. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,  my  dear,  and  it  suits  you  well," 
he  repeated.  "You  will,  of  course,  wear  it  to-night  at  the 
Embassy." 

"Wear  it?  Of  course  I  shall.  Even  Spanish  Ambas- 
sadors can't  have  anything  like  this " 

"No;  I  think  it  will  probably  outshine  anything  of 
Madame  di  Sant'  Ignacio's,"  he  answered  quietly.  "You 
must  wear  white  with  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  a  very  good  frock — white  satin." 

He  took  out  his  watch.  "It's  a  quarter  past  seven,  and 
we  dine  at  half-past  eight.  Good-bye,  my  dear;  it  makes 
me  very  happy  to  have  given  you  pleasure." 

He  had  reached  the  door,  when  she  called  him  back. 

"Oh,  Peregrine !"    He  turned. 

"Yes,  my  dear?" 

"I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me — that  is,  not  for 
me  exactly.  I  met  George  Loxley  the  other  day  in  Wiske- 
dale,  and  he's  very  ill — I'm  afraid  seriously  ill.  He  told 
me  the  doctors  say  he  ought  to  go  abroad  somewhere." 

402 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Janeways  looked  at  her,  a  little  surprise  in  his  face. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  Loxley  came  to  see  you  at 
Roseroofs  ?" 

"No,  no ;  it  was  in  the  lead  mine,  Cold  Comfort  Mine — 
and  cold  comfort  it  certainly  was,"  she  added.  "He  had 
hurt  his  knee  and  the  rain  was  coming  down  in  torrents, 
and  I  had  to  help  him  get  back  to  Clavers,  where  he 
was  staying  with  an  old  woman  who  used  to  be  his 
nurse." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Janeways  said: 

"I  am  sorry  he's  ill,  poor  fellow.  You  hadn't  known 
he  was  there,  had  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  it  was  by  accident.  You  don't  think,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  little  hauteur,  "that  I  would  have  seen  him 
on  purpose?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  her  husband  returned  in  a  specu- 
lative voice  that  seemed  to  her  to  mean  more  than  she 
just  then  had  time  to  decipher. 

"Well,  make  haste,  Nicoleta,  we  shall  be  late  for  din- 
ner. If  you  want  me  to  buy  a  bad  picture  from  Loxley, 
I'm  perfectly  willing  to  do  so,  but  it  must  be  done  through 
some  third  person,  for,  unless  I'm  mistaken,  he  wouldn't 
sell  anything  to  me." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  buy  a  picture,  Pelly.  It's  that 
he's  so  very  ill,  I'm  really  worried  about  him.  I  want 
you  to  give  me  five  hundred  pounds,  or  a  thousand,  to 
give  to  him — I  can  arrange  it  through  Mr.  Fleming  that 
he  will  never  know  that  it  was  you — to  go  to  some  good 
climate  and  live  comfortably  for  a  year.  You  will,  won't 
you?" 

It  had  grown  dark  in  the  room,  and  without  speaking 
Janeways  quietly  stretched  out  his  hand  and  switched 
on  the  light. 

"You  want  me  to  give  you  a  thousand  pounds?"  he 
repeated  slowly,  ignoring,  because  he  knew  her  so  well, 

403 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

her  first  mention  of  five  hundred.  "Why  should  I  do 
that?" 

She  frowned  as  the  clock  struck.  "There,  it's  half-past 
seven.  Oh,  do  say  you  will !  I'm  sure  you  would  if  you'd 
seen  his  poor  face,  and  you're  always  so  kind." 

Still  he  did  not  answer. 

"Peregrine,  I'm  surprised  at  you!"  There  was  real 
indignation  and  disappointment  in  her  voice,  and  at  this 
his  finely-cut  mouth  quivered  a  little,  though  the  gravity 
of  his  eyes  was  undiminished. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  to  deal  a  blow  to  your  belief  in  me," 
he  said  quietly,  "but  I  can't  see  why  you  should  ask  me 
to  do  this." 

"Then  you  won't?"  she  gasped.  "Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  really  and  truly  refuse?" 

An  unseen  spectator  would  have  been  puzzled  by  the 
look  on  Janeways'  face  at  that  moment.  It  was  a  look 
almost  of  relief,  and  of  relief  heightened  by  expectation. 

"Are  you  so  deeply  sorry,  then,"  he  asked,  "for  Lox- 
ley?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Have  you  ever  thought,  Nicoleta,"  he  said  deliber- 
ately, evidently  forgetting  the  flight  of  time,  "that  you 
made  a  mistake  in  leaving  your  husband?  Don't  think 
of  my  feelings ;  I'm  asking  you  in  the  spirit  in  which  your 
father  or  your  grandfather  might  have  asked  you." 

She  stared  at  him.  "George  and  I  were  perfectly  mis- 
erable," she  answered  unhesitatingly;  "I  daresay  it  was 
chiefly  my  fault;  if  it  was,  it  was  from  no  fault  that  I 
could  help,  but  it  was  dreadful." 

Her  hands  strayed  to  the  heavy  jewel  on  her  neck  and 
her  voice  changed. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  very  satisfactory  to  you,  Pere- 
grine," she  went  on  gently.  "I'm  not  much  of  a  success 
as  a  wife  and  I  know  it,  but  never  believe  that  I'm  not  fond 

404 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  you  and  grateful  to  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me." 

"Then  if  it  were  possible,"  he  persisted,  "supposing  we 
lived  in  the  days  of  miracles  and  it  were  possible  for  one 
of  us,  at  a  word  from  you,  to  undo  all  that  has  happened 
since — well,  let  us  say  since  Loxley  went  to  Greece — would 
the  word  be  said?" 

"Never !"  she  answered  decisively. 

"Ah!"  he  sighed,  and  the  unseen  observer,  if  he  had 
heard  it,  might  have  questioned  the  nature  of  that  sigh. 

"Peregrine,  you  will  let  me  have  the  money,  won't  you? 
You  can't  have  any  resentment  against  poor  George,  and 
I  assure  you  that  he  looks  alarmingly  ill." 

His  eyes  fell  on  the  crimson  drop  as  her  white  fingers 
played  with  it,  and  he  stood  suddenly  motionless. 

"That  ruby,"  he  said,  "is  worth  a  great  deal  more  than 
the  money  you  want  for  Loxley,  and  the  ruby  is  yours." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean,"  he  went  to  the  door,  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  it,  his  heavy  shoulders  looking  enormously  broad  as 
he  bent  his  head  forward  and  looked  at  her  weightily,  "I 
mean  that  the  ruby  is  yours,  and  that  you  are  free  to  do 
with  it  whatever  you  like.  I  am  not  disposed  myself  to 
do  anything  for  your  former  husband,  but  if  you  choose  to 
sell  the  ruby  you  are  at  liberty  to  do  whatever  you  like 
with  the  money  you  get  for  it,  and  you  will  have  no 
trouble  in  finding  someone  to  buy  it.  Think  it  over." 

He  went  quietly  out  and  shut  the  door.  His  rooms  were 
up  another  flight  of  stairs,  and  as  he  hurriedly  dressed 
there  was  a  look  in  his  face  that  finally  caused  the  faithful 
Giulio  to  ask  him  if  anything  was  the  matter. 

"II  signore  e  torbato?" 

Janeways  arranged  his  tie  with  the  greatest  nicety. 

"I  don't  quite  know,  my  old  Giuilo,"  he  answered, 
"Whether  I  am  troubled  or  not,  but  that  I  am  disturbed 
is  certain." 

405 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

The  old  servant  shook  his  head,  and  murmured  the  first 
words  of  a  proverb  to  the  effect  that  for  an  old  man  to 
take  a  young  wife  in  the  end  always  means  strife. 

"No,  no,  you  are  wrong.  The  Signora  is  never  quar- 
relsome and  talkative  like  most  women." 

Giulio  shot  him  a  quick  glance  from  eyes  as  dark  as  his 
own.  "Surely,"  he  said,  "the  Signore ?" 

Janeways  burst  out  laughing.  "No,  you  old  rascal, 
of  course  not.  With  all  my  faults,  as  you  ought  to  know, 
I've  always  respected  my  wives,  and  besides,"  he  added 
sadly,  "I'm  too  old  a  man.  I  couldn't  fall  in  love  again 
if  I  tried." 

He  went  downstairs  and  waited  in  the  library  with  the 
idoor  open  for  the  arrival  of  Cuckoo.  He  was  very  ner- 
vous and  bit  his  lips  hard  as  he  listened  for  her  footsteps. 
His  very  color  had  changed  and  the  lines  under  his  eyes 
looked  dark,  almost  as  if  they  were  artificial.  He  was 
waiting,  it  would  have  been  plain  to  the  invisible  witness 
that  the  man  was  waiting  not  only  for  his  wife's  coming 
downstairs,  but  for  something  far  more  important. 

It  was  three  minutes  to  eight  when  he  heard  her  voice 
speaking  to  her  maid  on  the  landing,  and  he  went  out  to 
the  hall,  where  Walters,  the  butler,  helped  him  on  with 
his  coat.  Cuckoo  came  slowly  down  the  broad  staircase, 
her  white  frock  flowing  behind  her,  for  it  was  before  the 
days  of  the  apotheosis  of  legs. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  awfully  late,"  she  said  as  she  joined 
him.  Her  cloak,  with  its  broad  -chinchilla  collar,  was 
fastened  close  to  her  throat.  Without  a  word  he  followed 
her  to  the  car. 

They  were  dining  at  the  Spanish  Ambassador's. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  until  the  car  was  drawing  up  in  the 
line,  a  little  way  from  the  door  of  their  destination. 

Then  Cuckoo  said  pleasantly,  "I  don't  believe  I've 
thanked  you  for  the  beautiful  way  in  which  you  have 

406 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

arranged  my  rooms,  Peregrine.    I  fear  I'm  a  very  spoilt 

person " 

When  he  met  her  outside  the  room  where  she  had  left 
her  cloak,  he  glanced  quickly  at  her  neck.  Round  it  hung 
the  ruby. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

MISS  FLORA  PLUES,  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
sat  by  the  fire  in  the  library  at  Sir  Peregrine 
Janeways'  town  house.  A  very,  very  old  woman 
she  looked  in  her  black  gown.  There  were  not  merely 
lines  in  her  face,  but  the  skin  was  like  the  wrinkled  skin 
on  scalded  milk;  it  was  white  and  soft,  but  wrinkled  as 
only  the  skin  of  very  old  people  ever  is.  Yet  as  she  sat 
there,  bending  over  her  embroidery,  the  model  for  which, 
a  few  Parma  violets,  stood  in  a  glass  of  water  beside  her, 
there  was  in  her  eyes,  looking  through  huge  tortoise-shell 
spectacles,  still  a  look  of  impregnable,  undying  youth. 
Beside  her,  on  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  sat  Lady  Rachel 
Jackson.  The  eighteen  months  that  had  passed  since  the 
house-party  at  Tarring-Peverell  had  of  course  changed 
Rachel  very  little,  for  she  was  only  twenty-seven,  but  the 
faults  of  her  character  were  already  beginning  to  make 
faint  but  unmistakable  traces  in  her  face.  She  looked 
more  like  her  mother  than  formerly,  and  she  was  too  fat, 
a  soft,  enveloping  fat,  and  the  lines  in  her  face  were  all 
downward  lines.  She  was  well-dressed  in  a  way  but  it  was 
not  in  the  best  way,  and  her  hair,  although  waved  and 
smartly-dressed,  was  lustreless  and  rough-looking. 

Alison  Jackson  had  not  done  badly ;  his  income  had  more 
than  doubled  since  his  marriage  and  he  stood  in  the  way 
of  steady  progress  in  his  profession.  But  a  little  boy  had 
come  to  join  the  twins,  and  life  as  Rachel  understood  it 
was  an  expensive  thing.  But  for  an  occasional  gift  from 
Janeways,  Rachel  would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  keep 

408 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

up  appearances,  and  these  gifts  were  no  longer  called 
loans. 

"I  wonder  where  Nicky  is,"  she  said,  after  a  while. 
"She  said  she'd  be  in  by  tea-time." 

Miss  Flora  did  not  answer  but  pursed  her  lips  a  little 
as  she  filled  her  needle  with  purple  silk. 

"How  do  you  think  Nicky  is  looking?"  went  on  the 
younger  woman.  "Don't  you  find  her  much  improved?" 

"She's  much  prettier  than  I  ever  expected  her  to  be," 
answered  Miss  Flora,  in  a  voice  whose  tenuity  matched 
her  extremely  fragile  look.  "She  ought  to  be  well  with 
such  an  excellent  husband." 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  murmured  Rachel  absently.  "Pere- 
grine's a  dear,  of  course — he's  grown  a  good  deal  older, 
hasn't  he?" 

Miss  Flora  pushed  her  owl-like  glasses  to  the  end  of  her 
nose  and  looked  over  them  severely. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said,  "I  think  him  very  young-look- 
ing." 

The  conversation  lagged,  as  it  always  did  between  these 
two.  In  the  old  days  Rachel  had  considered  Aunt  Flora 
delicious,  and  quaint,  and  a  pet,  but  of  late  years  the 
distance  between  them  had  seemed  to  widen,  and  Aunt 
Flora  stood,  as  indeed  she  now  stood  in  connection  with 
everybody,  as  one  on  a  vessel,  receding  from  the  land  where 
the  other  remained. 

"You're  to  be  here  all  winter,  aren't  you,  Miss  Flora?" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  Cuckoo  won't  hear  of  my  going  back 
to  Roseroofs  and  Sir  Peregrine,  too,  has  invited  me  to 
stay." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  Rachel  said  with  sincerity,  though 
with  no  particular  interest.  "Roseroofs  would  have  been 
very  lonely  for  you  without  poor  Miss  Effie." 

Miss  Effie  Plues  had  died  nearly  a  year  ago,  quite 
suddenly  of  heart  failure,  and  for  a  time  it  had  seemed  that 

409 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Miss  Flora  would  follow  her.  But  as  Janeways  said  to 
his  wife,  it  didn't  appear  as  if  Flora  could  do  anything 
so  violent  as  to  die,  though  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason 
why  she  should  go  on  living.  However,  the  old  lady  now 
considered  herself  quite  well,  and  was  certainly  far  happier 
in  her  niece's  house  than  she  could  have  been  anywhere 
else. 

Rachel  had  waited  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  growing 
impatient  she  rose  and  walked  about  the  beautiful  room. 

"I've  got  something  funny  to  tell  Nicky,"  she  said. 
"I  saw  Bertie  Fab  yesterday,  with  his  little  boy  on  a 
pony.  It's  the  ugliest  little  animal  that  ever  lived,  and 
Bertie  Fab  looked  as  proud  as  possible  of  it." 

Miss  Flora  glanced  up  at  her.  "If  he's  a  little  boy," 
she  asked  gently,  "why  don't  you  call  him  'him'?" 

Cuckoo  sometimes  thought  her  Aunt  Flora  tried  occa- 
sionally to  be  like  Aunt  Effie  nowadays,  and  this  was  one 
of  the  times  when  the  old  lady  spoke  really  more  like  her 
dead  sister  than  like  herself. 

Rachel  only  laughed,  and  wandered  about  the  room  in 
her  restless  way,  leaving  her  muff  and  stole  on  the  hearth- 
rug where  they  had  fallen.  Both  of  the  women  were 
thoroughly  bored  when  at  last  Cuckoo  came  in. 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  late,  and  I'm  glad  you've  had  tea,"  she 
said.  "You'll  never  guess  where  I've  been." 

"Where,  Nicky?" 

"I've  been  to  see  Aunt  Marcia,  Aunt  Flora.  I  met 
Bertie  this  morning,  and  he  told  me  that  she  had  said 
she  would  like  to  see  me,  so  I  thought  I.  might  as  well 
go." 

Miss  Flora  flushed  and  dropped  her  sewing. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  glad.  I  thought  poor  Marcia 
looking  very  ill  the  other  day,  and,  after  all,  six  years  is 
a  long  time  to  harbor  resentment  against  anybody  for 
anything." 

410 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Cuckoo  stood  by  the  fire  drawing  off  her  gloves.  She 
nodded  gently. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  a  long  time.  Poor  Aunt  Marcia ! 
I  didn't  want  to  go — I  didn't  think  I  could  be  nice  to  Her, 
and  somehow  it  seemed  quite  easy  when  I  got  there.  I 
just  wasn't  angry  any  more " 

"Lady  Fabricius  has  had  a  stroke,  hasn't  she?"  asked 
Rachel. 

Miss  Flora  answered.  "Yes,  my  poor  sister  has  been 
very  ill  for  some  months.  I  suppose,"  she  added,  turning 
to  Cuckoo,  "that  Hubert's  little  boy  is  a  great  comfort 
to  her?" 

Rachel  laughed.     "Ugly  little  toad,  how  could  he  be !" 

Cuckoo  looked  at  her,  with  the  touch  of  hauteur  that 
so  perturbed  Rachel.  "You  forget,"  she  said,  "that  little 
Dolph  is  Aunt  Flora's  great-nephew." 

She  sat  down  near  the  old  lady,  and  smelt  the  violets  in 
the  glass. 

"He's  a  very  ugly  little  boy,  Aunt  Flora,  but  he's  a 
dear.  He's  so  like  Uncle  Adolph,  it — it  quite  upset  me." 

Rachel  rose.  "You  are  a  funny  thing,  Nicky.  Some- 
times you're  as  hard  as  nails,  and  then  another  time  you 
are  sentimental  like  this.  I  heard  some  people  saying 
the  other  day  how  queer  and  inhuman  you  are,  but  I 
think  you're  much  softer  than  you  used  to  be." 

Cuckoo  did  not  answer,  and  Rachel,  after  giving  a 
message  that  explained  why  she  had  waited,  said  good-bye 
to  the  old  lady  and  then  to  her  friend. 

Cuckoo  followed  her  to  the  hall  and  they  stood  talking 
together  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Nicky,  that  wasn't  really  why  I  came,  but  I  didn't 
want  to  tell  Miss  Flora.  I've — I've  just  seen  someone, 
and  I  think  you  ought  to  know." 

"Who  was  it?" 

Rachel  watched  her  closely.  "George — George  Lox- 

411 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ley,  and  oh,  Nicky,  he  looks  so  ill.     I  hardly  knew  him !" 

Cuckoo's  strange  eyes  were  perfectly  expressionless. 
She  turned  on  the  electric  light. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  returned,  "that  he's  very  delicate. 

Rachel  gave  a  little  snort.  "  'M,  delicate !  He  looks 
as  if  he  was  dying." 

"He  looked  as  if  he  was  dying  last  time  I  saw  him,  and 
that's  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  Where  did  you  see  him, 
Ray?" 

"Just  outside  the  Stores.  He  didn't  see  me,  and  I'd 
have  gone  after  him,  only  he  wasn't  alone." 

"Who  was  with  him?" 

"Oh,  nobody  we  know — a  girl;  at  least,  she  looked  a 
girl.  They  were  going  along  in  the  snow  with  their  heads 
bent  down  and  their  bodies  sort  of  huddled  together,  the 
way  poor  people  do.  I — I  thought  I'd  just  tell  you, 
Nicky." 

Cuckoo's  little  face,  which  had  gained  something  that 
can  only  be  aptly  expressed  by  the  word  importance,  re- 
mained unchanged. 

"Thanks,  Ray.  I'm  afraid  it's  no  business  of  mine,  but 
I'm  very,  very  sorry  he's  ill." 

Rachel  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then,  as  she  fastened 
her  furs  and  settled  her  hands  in  her  muff,  she  said,  hur- 
riedly, "I  know  where  he  lives,  Nicky,  in  case  you  should 
want  to  know.  He's  still  in  the  old  studio.  Frank  Eard- 
ley's  sculptor  friend  lives  in  the  same  buildings  and  he 
told  me.  I  was  wondering  whether  the  girl  I  saw  with  him 
is  his  wife  or  something." 

Cuckoo  laughed.  "If  anything,  my  dear,  she's  his 
wife,  and  not  'something.'  I'm  sorry,  Ray,  but  I  must 
go  upstairs  now.  I  walked  home  and  my  feet  are  soaked." 

They  kissed  each  other  good-bye,  and  Lady  Rachel 
went  her  way. 

Cuckoo  sat  by  the  fire  in  her  pleasant  room  without 

412 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ringing  for  her  maid — a  most  unusual  thing  for  the  lux- 
urious Lady  Janeways,  took  off  her  shoes  and  put  on  a 
pair  of  slippers.  She  was  frowning  as  she  took  off  her 
hat  and  sables,  and  then  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room,  in  a  way  that  any  observer  would  have  seen  to  be  a 
habit  of  hers. 

Presently  she  took  off  her  jacket,  and  her  little  figure 
was  visible.  She  was  very  thin,  though  her  beautifully 
cut  clothes  and  cunningly  devised  blouse  saved  her  from 
any  look  of  boniness.  Her  waist  was  almost  absurdly 
small,  and  her  head,  with  its  beautifully  cared-for  hair 
was  held  in  a  way  that  made  her  neck  look  too  long  and 
too  thin.  Hers  was  not  a  pleasant  face,  it  was  troubled, 
but  its  trouble  was  of  some  complex  kind  that  took  from 
it  any  look  of  hardness.  Her  gloomy  eyes  were  not  sullen, 
but  had  an  odd  look  of  perplexed  tragedy  in  them. 
Among  modern  faces,  hers  stood  out  in  a  way  that  was 
almost  distinguished,  with  its  lack  of  tenderness  and  facile 
good-nature  and  also  its  look  of  intense  pride. 

Up  and  down  the  room  she  marched,  deep  in  unhappy 
thought.  From  the  night,  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  when 
she  had  decided  that  not  even  to  help  her  former  husband 
could  she  give  up  her  ruby,  she  had  resolutely  and  with 
remarkable  success,  put  from  her  all  thought  of  George 
Loxley  and  her  life  with  him.  Her  will-power  was  enor- 
mous, and  her  instinct  for  self-defence  had  taught  her 
that  the  feelings  she  had  experienced  in' Cold  Comfort  Mine 
that  rainy  June  day  were  feelings  full  of  peril  for  her; 
feelings  that  at  all  costs  must  be  suppressed.  Her  life 
was  full,  busy,  prosperous,  almost  triumphant;  her  hus- 
band was  kindness  itself,  and  she  was  intensely  proud  of 
him.  She  was  also,  without  realizing  it,  full  of  the  pride 
that  sets  a  woman  beyond  and  above  the  small  vulgari- 
ties that  have  grown  like  weeds  in  what  is  called  the  new 
field  of  women.  Her  life  was  as  austere  and  dignified  as 

413 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

the  most  severe  grandmother  could  have  wished  the  life 
of  her  grand-daughter  to  be. 

So  ardent  was  her  self-respect  and  her  respect  for  her 
husband  that  some  of  the  most  rigid  old  women  in  So- 
ciety had  forgiven  her  her  bad  beginnings.  Yes,  her  life, 
she  thought,  as  she  walked  up  and  down,  had  been  mar- 
vellously successful.  Then,  because  she  was  quick-witted 
and  fine-nerved,  she  caught  the  absurd  pathos  of  the  past 
tense  she  had  used.  She  was  seven-and-twenty  and  she 
had  spoken  of  herself  as  if  she  had  been  fifty.  She  was 
amazed  by  the  strength  of  the  feeling  called  to  the  sur- 
face by  Rachel's  story  of  George ;  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  his  walking  in  the  snow-storm  with  his  head  bent 
and  his  poor  shoulders  drawn  together.  If  that  girl  with 
him  was  his  wife,  she  ought  to  be  beaten  for  allowing  him 
to  be  out  in  a  snow-storm.  She,  Cuckoo,  had  prevented 
that,  even  in  her  worst  Chelsea  days. 

If  only  she  could  know  how  he  really  was !  "If  only 
I  dared  write  to  him,"  she  said  under  her  breath.  Pres- 
ently she  went  into  her  sitting-room  and  switched  on  the 
light.  No,  she  couldn't  write  to  him,  for  he  had  never 
answered  the  letter  she  had  sent  to  Mary  Watlass,  after 
their  meeting  in  the  rain-storm,  to  ask  how  his  knee  was. 
She  had  been  very  angry  at  his  disregarding  her  letter, 
and  her  anger  had  helped  her  to  overcome  the  dangerous 
feeling  of  weakness  that  had  come  over  her  at  the  sight 
of  his  face  and  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  It  was  still 
snowing  hard,  and  she  could  imagine  him  and  his  com- 
panion— his  idiotic  fool  of  a  companion,  to  let  him  get 
his  poor  feet  wet — huddled  in  a  bus,  jostled  and  trodden 
upon  by  unwashed,  bad-smelling  people.  She  could  see 
him  getting  out  into  the  mud  and  hurrying  up  horrible, 
sordid  Barker  Street,  down  which  the  wind  from  the  river 
always  whistled  as  through  some  canyon.  And  then 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

they'd  climb  up  those  long,  resonant,  cold  stairs,  and  he 
would  open  the  door  with  his  latch-key,  and  they  would 
go  in  and  the  fire  in  the  studio  would  be  out  and  he  would 
not  be  able  to  find  the  matches.  She  gave  a  little  nervous 
laugh.  George  never  was  able  to  find  the  matches  in  the 
dark — and  when  he  did,  the  wood  would  be  damp,  and 
Mrs.  Peacock  would  have  forgotten  the  milk  for  tea. 
Suddenly  she  drew  a  long  breath  and  turned  away  from 
the  window.  How  absurd  she  was  !  It  was  in  her  day  that 
the  fire  went  out  and  the  matches  were  lost,  and  the  milk 
was  forgotten.  Probably  the  girl  whom  Rachel  had  seen 
was  a  good  manager,  and  the  room  was  cosy,  and  the 
curtains  drawn  and  the  hearth  swept.  How  bored  she, 
Cuckoo,  had  been  by  George's  hatred  of  an  untidy  hearth ! 
As  she  reached  the  fire,  the  door  of  her  room  opened  and 
Janeways  came  in. 

She  went  straight  to  him,  and  putting  both  hands  on 
his  arm,  leant  her  little  head  on  her  hands.  He  seemed 
not  at  all  surprised  by  this  silent  demonstration,  and  put 
his  arm  round  her  gently. 

"My  dear  Nicoleta — poor  little  Cuckoo,"  he  said  ten- 
'derly.  "What's  the  matter?" 

She  shook  her  head  without  answering  and  he  went  on: 

"Nothing?     Just  the  same  old  Camelius  hump?" 

Then,  with  a  sigh,  she  looked  at  him.  "Yes,  Pelly.  I'm 
so  glad  you've  come  in.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be 
miserable,  but  I  am." 

They  sat  down  on  the  sofa  by  the  fire,  Janeways  hold- 
ing her  hand  and  looking  at  her  with  an  immense  and 
pitiful  tenderness  in  his  eyes.  Anyone  seeing  them  thus 
together  would  never  have  dreamt  that  he  was  her  hus- 
band. If  not  her  grandfather,  he  must  be,  one  would  have 
thought,  an  adoring,  indulgent  father. 

He  said  little  or  nothing,  and  she  did  not  seem  to 
expect  words  from  him.  In  the  vast  and  vague  malaise 

415 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

that  was  always  just  on  the  point  of  enveloping  her — 
an  undefined,  dull  sense  of  loss  and  misery — she  had 
come  to  regard  him  as  the  only  person  in  the  world  who 
understood  and  could  help  her.  And  this  although  they 
had  never  discussed  the  matter  and  rarely  spoke  of  any 
but  the  most  superficial  things. 

"Where  have  you  been  this  afternoon,  my  dear?"  he 
said  at  length. 

Her  face  lighted  up  as  if  she  were  about  to  give  him 
something. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  went  to  see  poor  Aunt  Marcia.  I'm  glad 
I  went ;  she's  very  piteous,  her  poor  face  all  drawn  down. 
I  think  you  know  that  she  misses  Uncle  Adolph  dread- 
fully." He  nodded. 

"Very  likely.  He  adored  her,  and  no  one  likes  to  miss 
adoration." 

Cuckoo  then  told  him  about  the  funny  little  boy,  Ber- 
tie Fab's  son. 

"It's  a  pity  he  didn't  take  after  his  mother,"  Sir  Pere- 
grine said.  "From  that  glimpse  I  had  of  her  the  famous 
night  of  the  Follies  Bergeres,  I  thought  her  very  pretty. 
iWhat  was  her  name — Grant?" 

"Yes.  But  Adolph  is  a  dear  little  fellow,  although  he's 
so  ugly,"  Cuckoo  explained.  "And  he  has  the  sweetest 
little  manners." 

Janeways  looked  at  her  with  the  fine  gravity  that  was 
his. 

"I  am  sorry,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "that  we  haven't  a 
son.  I  have  often  noticed  that  a  little  boy  takes  away 
all  feeling  of  loneliness  from  a  woman  who  is  alone." 

She  caught  his  hand  and  laid  her  face  for  .a  minute 
against  it. 

"But  I  have  you,  Peregrine,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want 
a  little  boy." 

416 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"You  haven't  yet  learnt,"  he  returned  gently,  "what 
the  things  are  that  you  really  want." 

Cuckoo  rose,  her  momentary  softness  gone. 

"I  know  well,"  she  answered,  "and  what  I  wanted  I 
have  got.  I  need  no  pity  from  anybody,  except  for  my 
silly  Cameliusness.  And  now  I  must  go  and  dress  for  din- 
ner, dear  Magnificent." 

He  rose  obediently.  "You've  got  what  you  wanted, 
no  doubt,"  he  returned  smiling ;  "what  I  said  was,  that  your 
don't  know,  and  you  have  not  yet  learned,  what  you 
leapt!" 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  "you  are  not  to 
say  again  that  you  are  too  old  for  me,  or  that  my  youth  is 
wasted.  I  won't  have  it,  for  it  isn't  true.  When  I  was 
born  something  was  left  out  of  me ;  I  suppose  it's  the  thing 
they  call  sentiment;  and  from  what  I  can  see  of  people 
who  have  it,  I'm  only  to  be  envied  for  the  lack." 

She  smiled,  a  brilliant,  conventional  smile  which  she  had 
learned  early  in  their  married  life,  but  which,  since  then, 
she  had  brought  to  a  high  state  of  perfection,  and  they 
parted. 

When  she  was  alone,  she  went  to  her  dressing-room 
and  stood  for  a  moment  to  settle  her  thoughts  before 
speaking  to  her  maid. 

She  would  put,  and  keep,  George  Loxley  out  of  her 
mind.  She  would  have  loved  to  tell  her  husband  about 
George,  but  she  had  never  forgotten  the  one  time  he  had 
failed  her ;  the  time  when  she  had  asked  him  to  help.  No, 
she  could  not  tell  Peregrine. 

They  had  guests  to  dinner  that  night,  and  Cuckoo, 
who  had  developed  through  the  reading  her  husband,  al- 
most without  her  knowing,  had  taught  her  to  do  and 
through  meeting  the  clever  and  brilliant  people  who  com- 
pose what  is  probably  the  best  society  in  the  world,  was, 
in  her  way,  an  almost  exceptionally  good  talker.  She 

417 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

had  learnt  French,  too,  studying  hard,  applying  herself 
in  a  way  that  surprised  and  delighted  her  husband,  and 
the  guest  of  the  evening,  a  distinguished  French  painter, 
showed  his  admiration  for  her  in  the  delightfully  cour- 
teous manner  of  his  race.  After  dinner  she  went,  as  was 
her  wont,  upstairs  for  a  moment  to  see  Aunt  Flora,  who 
preferred  to  dine  alone  when  there  were  guests.  Miss 
Flora  gave  a  little  cry  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  waved  her 
hands  in  the  way  that  had  caused  such  a  distressing  mix- 
ture of  feeling  in  Aunt  Effie. 

"My  dear,"  she  cried,  "how  pretty  you  look!" 

Cuckoo  burst  out  laughing,  a  laugh  Aunt  Flora  had 
just  begun  to  notice  because  of  a  new  frankness  and 
spontaneity  it  held. 

"I'm  a  lovely  woman,"  she  returned,  kissing  the  old 
lady,  "and  it's  a  delightful  thing  to  be  appreciated  at 
home." 

Miss  Flora  stretched  out  her  hand,  that  trembled  a 
little,  and  touched  the  great  jewel  that  hung  on  her  niece's 
neck.  "I  do  love  your  ruby,"  she  said;  "it's  the  most 
beautiful  thing  I  have  ever  seen,  Cuckoo." 

Cuckoo  caught  it  in  her  hand  and  held  it  tight  for  a 
moment,  the  light  dying  out  of  her  face,  her  mouth  hard- 
ening. 

"Yes,"  she  said  shortly,  "it's  very  beautiful." 

She  did  not  stay  long  in  the  quiet  upstairs  room,  and 
when  she  had  gone  back  to  her  guests,  old  Miss  Flora 
sat  gazing  into  the  fire. 

Presently,  quite  unconsciously,  the  old  lady  spoke 
aloud. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  Peregrine  is  right." 


418 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

NEXT  morning,  Lady  Janeways,  very  plainly 
dressed  and  wearing  over  her  dark  coat  and  skirt 
an  old  country  Burberry,  left  her  house  so  quietly 
that  not  even  the  servants  knew  she  had  gone.  It  was 
a  dull,  damp  morning,  yesterday's  snow  transmuted  into 
black,  sticky  puddles  and  mud;  and  fog,  the  dirty,  de- 
pressing fog  which,  gray  and  filmy,  has  none  of  the 
charm,  even  for  confirmed  Londonophiles,  that  has  a 
real,  impenetrable  yellow  one. 

Cuckoo  walked  quickly  to  St.  James's  Street  and  got 
a  taxi. 

"I  don't  know  the  address  I  want  to  go  to,"  she  said 
to  the  man;  "it's  in  Chelsea,  close  to  the  Embankment, 
and  one  end  of  the  street  comes  out  not  very  far  from 
the  Underground  Station.  I'll  knock  on  the  glass  when 
we  get  there." 

She  drove  along,  leaning  back  in  the  corner,  thinking 
hard.  She  had  slept  little,  for  an  insistent,  annoying 
thought  of  George  had  not  left  her  all  night.  She  had 
no  wish  to  see  him  personally,  but  she  felt  after  Rachel's 
story  that  she  could  not  bear  not  knowing  how  he  really 
was.  She  had  never  dared  to  think  much  about  what 
she  had  done  in  connection  with  the  ruby,  but  the  very 
fact  of  her  fearing  to  reflect  about  the  matter  proved 
that,  at  least  subconsciously,  she  knew  how  base  her  act, 
or  rather  her  lack  of  action,  had  been.  And  now,  as  the 
taxi  made  its  way  to  Sloane  Square,  she  was  fighting  a 
furious  onslaught  of  memories.  She  knew  that  she  might, 
if  she  had  sold  the  ruby,  have  provided  for  George  for  the 

419 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

rest  of  his  life,  without  his  ever  suspecting  the  source  of 
his  independence. 

Paul  Fleming,  the  invalid  son  of  the  old  banker  in 
Glasgow,  had  lived  in  London  in  the  early  days  of  her 
married  life  with  Janeways,  and  she  had  chanced  to  meet 
and  know  him.  He  had  been  fond  of  George,  but  he  had 
taken  a  great  liking  to  Cuckoo,  a  liking  so  great  that  she 
knew,  in  spite  of  her  fierce  withdrawal  from  any  senti- 
mental contact  with  anyone,  that  she  could  use  his  feeling 
for  her  to  a  great  extent  just  as  she  liked.  The  money 
could  have  passed  through  Fleming's  hands  as  the  post- 
humous gift  from  his  old  father,  who  had  died  just  before 
Cuckoo  and  her  husband  went  to  Tarring-Peverell.  It 
would  all  have  been  so  easy,  so  simple,  if  only  she  could 
have  made  up  her  mind  to  part  with  her  splendid  bauble. 
But  this  she  had  been  unable  to  do,  and  George  had  gone 
on  being  poor  and  ill. 

Since  her  husband  left  her  sitting-room  after  giving 
her  the  jewel,  Cuckoo  had  never  referred  to  the  matter. 
She  had  worn  the  ruby  and  she  had  not  failed  to  notice 
the  look  in  his  eyes  when,  after  her  taking  off  her  cloak 
at  her  hostess's  house,  he  had  seen  it  on  her  neck.  He 
had  said  nothing  then  or  afterwards,  and  she  had  often 
wondered  what  he  thought.  It  seemed  to  her  that  morn- 
ing on  her  way  to  Chelsea  that  she  was  pretty  sure  what 
Janeways  must  think.  She  had  always  resented  his  re- 
fusal to  help  George,  and  she  had  buttressed  herself 
against  her  own  conscience  by  trying  to  believe  Jane- 
ways  mean  in  the  matter.  But  she  knew  that  he  was  not 
mean;  she  knew  that  he  was  generosity  itself.  She  had 
come  to  know  indirectly  the  kind  and  thoughtful  things 
the  old  man  did  every  day  of  his  life,  and  she  knew  that 
one  of  the  things  that  was  always  said  of  him  was  how 
well  he  deserved  his  great  wealth,  because  with  it  he  made 
the  lives  of  so  many  people  at  least  more  bearable,  if  not 

420 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

really  happy;  and  the  thought,  with  time,  had  become 
more  insistent  to  Cuckoo  that  there  must  be  some  really 
good  reason  for  the  strange  attitude  he  had  taken  about 
George. 

She  had  never  allowed  herself  to  go  to  the  bottom  of 
the  thing  and  look  at  the  truth  that  she  knew  must  be 
there.  She  loved  her  ruby;  it  was  hers,  and  Janeways 
had  been  cruel  to  give  it  to  her  and  then  try  to  make  her 
part  with  it.  But  now  she  was  obliged  to  own  to  herself 
definitely,  without  reserve,  that  Janeways  was  not  cruel. 
He  had  refused  to  help  George,  and  she  could  no  longer 
refuse  to  recognize  that  his  reason  must  have  been  that 
he  wished  in  some  way  to  test  her.  Well,  he  had  tested 
her,  and  she  had  failed.  She  drew  a  deep  breath  and  bit 
her  lip.  It  hurt  her,  in  a  way  that  surprised  her,  that 
she  had  failed  in  Janeways'  eyes,  and  she  laughed  angrily. 
"It's  ridiculous  to  feel  the  way  I  do.  The  idea  of  his 
being  disappointed  in  me !  After  all,  the  ruby  was  mine, 
and  when  one  considers  the  things  he  has  done  in  his 

life — the  trouble  he  has  made "  She  broke  off.  It 

was  no  good.  She  was  ashamed,  because  she  knew  that 
Janeways  was  ashamed  of  her. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  corner  where  she  paid  the  chauf- 
feur and  dismissed  him.  From  the  sordid  street  in  which 
she  stood  ran  a  smaller,  still  poorer  little  street,  com- 
posed of  very  small,  very  ancient  cottages  that  must 
have  stood  there  when  Chelsea  was  a  riverside  village; 
and  each  little  cottage  still  had  in  front  of  it  a  narrow 
strip  of  garden,  separated  from  its  neighbor  by  tumble- 
down palings.  It  was  no  thoroughfare  and  at  the  far 
end  pf  it  was  a  high  wall,  on  the  other  side  of  which  she 
could  see,  amid  naked  trees,  a  squat  church-tower.  Yes, 
this  was  the  place.  She  walked  slowly  up  the  street,  at- 
tracting in  her  shabby  coat  very  little  attention.  It  was 
raining  now,  and  at  every  door-step  was  clustered  a  swarm 

421 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  children,  who  otherwise,  she  thought,  would  have  been 
roaring  and  screaming  in  the  streets.  There  was  among 
the  children  the  usual  proportion  of  unwiped  noses ;  and 
they  were  dirty  and  unattractive-looking.  Cuckoo  shud- 
dered as  she  looked  at  them.  She  had  forgotten  the  num- 
ber of  the  house  she  wanted,  but  as  she  walked  along  she 
stopped,  and  looking  at  one  of  the  windows  on  her  right, 
stopped  and  gave  a  little  laugh.  In  the  window,  behind 
stiffly  starched  Manchester  lace  curtains,  stood  on  a  little 
table  a  turquoise-colored  jardiniere  with  an  artificial  rub- 
ber-plant in  it. 

"I  always  knew  she  had  taken  that  thing,"  she  said 
aloud.  Then  she  went  into  the  little  garden  and  knocked 
at  the  door.  Ass  she  stood  there  waiting  for  the  answer 
to  her  knock,  which  was  long  in  coming,  a  curious  feeling 
of  other  days  came  over  her.  She  was  not  Lady  Jane- 
ways,  of  St.  James's  Square  and  Tarring-Peverell,  York- 
shire; she  was  not  even  Cuckoo  Blundell,  of  65s,  South 
Audley  Street ;  she  was  Mrs.  George  Loxley,  of  Whistler 
Mansions.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  but  just  left 
the  untidy,  miserable  studio  and  that  in  a  moment  she 
would  be  going  back  there,  .up  the  cold,  damp  stairs  and 
into  the  room  she  so  hated.  She  thought  with  a  shudder 
of  the  badly  hacked,  cold  leg  of  mutton  that  would  be 
in  the  larder;  and  of  the  gas-stove  that,  although  the 
man  assured  her  it  didn't  leak,  always  smelt  and  made 
her  head  ache. 

'When  the  door  opened  she  started,  so  deep  had  she  been 
in  her  bad  dream.  The  slatternly  woman  with  the  wisp 
of  red  hair  and  the  teeth  that  moved  up  and  down  when 
she  talked,  looked  at  her  dully,  without  recognition. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Peacock?"  Cuckoo  asked.  "Yes,  of 
course  you  are.  I'm  Lady — that  is,  I  used  to  be  Mrs. 
Loxley,  of  Whistler  Mansions.  Do  you  remember  me?" 

Mrs.  Peacock  did,  and  expressed  her  interest  and 

422 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

pleasure  at  seeing  her  ladyship.  Cuckoo,  on  her  invita- 
tion, followed  her  into  the  little,  stuffy  parlor.  Mrs. 
Peacock  had,  with  the  passage  of  years,  evidently  forgot- 
ten the  blue  jardiniere  which,  as  she  herself  would  have 
said,  she  had  "pinched"  from  the  place  where  it  had  been 
put  after  the  unlamented  death  of  the  palm  it  had  orig- 
inally contained.  She  had  also  forgotten  the  lace-edged 
tea-cloth  that  had  become  hers  in  the  same  way. 

Mrs.  Peacock  had  not  changed  for  the  better,  and  her 
servility  (she  had  in  the  old  days  been  anything  but  a 
polite  woman)  annoyed  Cuckoo.  So  very  quickly  she 
got  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"Do  you  still  work  for  Mr.  Loxley?"  she  asked. 

"No,  not  now,  m'm — my  lady.  You  see,  I  married 
again  shortly  after  your  ladyship  went  away;  and  what 
with  two  babies  comin'  and  my  'usband  'avin'  good  work, 
I  didn't  go  out  for  a  while.  But  a  friend  o'  mine,  Mrs. 
Briggs — she  lives  in  the  'ouse  opposite,  I  gaive  'er  the  job 
and  she  still  goes  reg'lar.  Pore  gentleman,"  she  added, 
in  an  unpleasantly  sentimental  way,  "she  says  as  'e  coughs 
somethink  awful." 

"That  is  just  what  I've  come  to  see  you  about,"  Cuckoo 
said,  in  a  voice  afterwards  characterized  by  Mrs.  Pea- 
cock as  "that  proud."  "I'm  in  a  great  hurry,  so  I'll 
tell  you  quickly  what  I  wish  you  to  do." 

The  little  woman  rubbed  her  hands.  She  smelt  of  soap, 
so  it  was  obviously  washing-day  in  Rosetree  Grove. 

"Anythink  I  could  do,  my  lady,  I'm  sure " 

Cuckoo  frowned.  "Please  don't  interrupt  me.  My 
husband  and  I  are  very  anxious  to  find  out  exactly  how 
Mr.  Loxley  is.  We've  been  very  distressed  to  hear  of 
his  ill-health.  I  will  give  you  five  pounds  if  you  will  find 
means  to  go  to  the  flat  and  see  Mr.  Loxley  yourself,  and, 
if  you  can,  without  letting  him  know  that  you've  seen  me, 
find  out  just  how  he  is,  what  his  plans  are — in  short,  I 

423 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

wish  to  know  all  that  you  can  find  out,  and  particularly 
if  he  is  painting,  and  where,  if  he  is,  he  sells  his  pictures. 
Do  you  understand?" 

Mrs.  Peacock  did  understand,  and  Cuckoo  was  obliged 
to  cut  short  her  ecstatic  appreciation  of  her  ladyship's 
kindness  towards  the  poor  gentleman. 

"Thanks,"  she  said,  "that  will  do.  Now,  if  you  should 
ever  tell  anyone  that  Sir  Peregrine  Janeways  and  I  have 
taken  means  to  inform  ourselves  about  Mr.  Loxley,"  she 
added,  rising,  "I  will  have  you  arrested  for  stealing  that 
flower-pot  and  this  lace  cloth." 

Mrs.  Peacock  was  offended;  Mrs.  Peacock  was  indig- 
nant; but  Mrs.  Peacock  was  frightened  and  filled  with 
cupidity  as  well.  So  at  the  end  of  five  minutes  the  mat- 
ter was  arranged  and  Cuckoo  stood  at  the  door,  listen- 
ing unwillingly  to  the  woman's  repeated  promises  to  do 
everything  her  ladyship  required. 

"Mind  you  don't  lose  the  address,"  Cuckoo  said,  "and 
when  you  ask  to  see  me,  be  very,  very  careful  to  say 
nothing  to  any  of  my  servants  that  could  get  you — not 
me,  Mrs.  Peacock,  but  you — into  trouble." 

Just  as  she  was  leaving,  she  turned. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said  carelessly,  "I  forgot  to  ask 
you  whether  Mr.  Loxley  has  married  again.  I  saw  him 
the  other  day  with  a  lady,  and  I  hoped " 

Mrs.  Peacock  interrupted,  a  sly  smile  in  her  unpleasant 
little  face. 

"No,  m'm — my  lady,  he  isn't  married,  though  I  know 
a  lidy  as  would  give  her  eyes  if  'e  was,  and  to  'er,  too." 

"Indeed?"  Bitterly  ashamed  of  herself,  Cuckoo  stood 
as  if  nailed  to  the  path,  waiting. 

"She's  a  Miss  Carson — lives  in  the  same  buildin's  she 
does.  She  paints  fans.  Quite  a  noise  lidy — always 
pleasant.  Mr.  Loxley  'e  often  goes  to  see  'er,  Mrs.  Briggs 
says,  and  she  goes  to  see  'im,  too.  Wore  'erself  quite 

424 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

out,  takin'  care  of  'im,  she  did,  when  'e  was  ill  last 
time." 

Lady  Janeways  stood,  her  little  figure  remarkably 
straight,  her  little  face  white  and  haughty. 

"Oh,  I  am  glad  of  that!  It's  dreadful  to  be  alone 
when,  one  is  ill,"  she  said.  "Good  morning,  Mrs.  Pea- 
cock. I  shall  expect  you  one  evening  at  the  end  of  the 
week."  Mrs.  Peacock  stood  at  the  door  and  watched  her 
visitor  making-  her  way  up  the  street.  She  was  thoroughly 
frightened,  for  the  blue  jardiniere  and  the  tea-cloth  were 
not  the  only  things  that  had,  under  her  guidance, tchanged 
their  abode  in  the  old  days.  She  was  busy  that  morning, 
but  in  the  afternoon  she  would  go  and  have  a  cup  of  tea 
with  Maud  Briggs  and  arrange  to  take  that  lady's  place 
at  Mr.  Loxley's  flat  the  following  day.  Mrs.  Peacock 
would  have  liked  to  be  very  angry  with  Lady  ^Janeways, 
but  she  didn't  dare,  so  she  decided  to  put  all  thought  of 
the  stolen  things  out  of  her  mind  and  comfort  herself 
with  planning  what  she  was  to  do  with  the  five  pounds 
her  ladyship  had  promised  her. 

Meantime  Cuckoo  had  gone  out  into  the  broad  thorough- 
fare and  was  making  her  way  back  towards  Sloane 
Square.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  as  she  was  perturbed 
and  nervous,  she  decided  to  walk  part  of  the  way  home. 
She  went  quickly  on,  deep  in  thought,  hating  herself  for 
the  humiliation  of  her  scene  with  Mrs.  Peacock,  trying  to 
plan  what  she  could  do  for  George  if  Mrs.  Peacock's 
report  on  him  should  be  very  bad.  She  .could  sell  her 
jewels  at  any  moment,  she  knew  Peregrine  would  not 
mind  ;a  she  was  even  beginning  to  have  a  shrewd  idea  that 
he  would,  on  the  contrary,  be  glad  if  she  did  so.  But 
she  had  no  wish  to  part  from  the  beautiful  things  she  loved 
with  an  intensity  of  which  few  women  could  have  any 
idea.  One  of  her  greatest  pleasures  was  to  lock  her  door 
and  spread  out  on  a  big  table  all  those  wonderful  gifts 

425 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  her  husband's  and  look  at  and  play  with  them.  She 
loved  her  silky,  big  pearls  with  something  like  passion, 
and  she  had  many  of  them.  Diamonds  she  did  not  so 
greatly  care  for,  so  Janeways  had  given  her  only  a  few, 
but  they  were, very  fine  ones  and  she  was  fond  of  them 
because  of  their  intrinsic  value.  Her  emeralds  were  very 
good,  and  the  ruby  she  had  never  seen  beaten,  although 
there  are  in  London  some  of  the  finest  rubies  in  the  world. 
Of  course,  she  reflected,  if  George  were  really  seriously 
ill  she  could,  and  would,  sell  some  of  the  things,  but  when 
it  came  to  deciding  which  she  would  part  with,  each  single 
object  seemed  absolutely  indispensable  to  her.  Presently 
she  came  out  on  the  Embankment.  The  river  was  full 
and  oily-looking,  rolling  smoothly  along,  the  color  of  cafe 
au  lait.  For  a  while  she  stood  leaning  on  the  parapet, 
staring  absently  across  towards  Battersea  Park.  She 
remembered  the  day  she  had  rushed  out  of  the  house,  de- 
ciding that  she  could  no  longer  go  on  and  that  she  must 
have  a  change.  It  had  been  raining  then,  and  it  was  not 
raining  now,  but  the  time  of  the  year  was  the  same  and 
there  was  the  same  slippery,  slimy,  brown  mud  in  the 
road,  and  if  it  had  rained  she  knew  the  dull  scene  would 
have  the  look  of  the  day  she  had  never  forgotten,  for  it 
was  the  day  she  had  seen  Janeways  sitting  in  his  car. 

Suddenly  she  saw  a  man  and  woman  walking  slowly 
towards  her.  .The  man  was  slight  and  bent  and  leaning 
on  the  woman  as  if  he  had  been  ill. 

At  first  she  thought  it  was  George;  but  it  wasn't,  and 
for  some  reason  as  she  passed  them  she  felt  a  great  relief. 
The  young  woman,  who  was  extremely  pretty,  said,  as 
she  passed,  "Does  the  air  make  you  feel  better,  darling?" 
Cuckoo  frowned.  That  was  not  George  and  his  Miss 
Carson,  but  it  might  have  been.  She  laughed  as  she 
realized  she  did  not  like  Miss  Carson,  who  painted  fans. 
"Pm  an  idiot,"  she  said't'o  herself.  "Poor  George!  I 

426 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ought  to  be  glad  someone  is  taking  care  of  him — yes, 
and  I  am,  really." 

Halfway  down  the  Embankment  she  hailed  a  taxi 
and  drove  to  Curzon  Street,  whence  she  went  home  on 
foot. 

She  was  very  busy  the  rest  of  the  day,  for  two  days 
later  she  was  to  give  her  first  ball,  before  which  there  was 
to  be  a  dinner-party  that  she  was  bent  .on  making  a  great 
success.  One  or  two  minor  Royalties  would  be  there,  and, 
what  she  knew  from  her  husband  .was  of  more  real  impor- 
tance, two  old,  frumpish  and  extremely  dull  ladies  of  the 
old  school,  who  had  never  before  honored  her  with  their 
presence  in  her  house. 

Aunt  Flora  was  deeply  interested  in  all  the  arrange- 
ments for  these  festivities,  and  Cuckoo  had  invented  vari- 
ous little  ways  in  which  the  old  lady  might  suppose  herself 
to  be  helping.  She  was  growing  very  fond  of  her  old 
aunt,  and  she  knew  besides  that  it  pleased  Janeways  to 
have  her  pay  these  little  attentions  to  Miss  Flora. 

When  she  went  upstairs  that  morning  she  found  Miss 
Flora  very  busy  and  very  important,  giving  orders  to  a 
grand  young  gentleman  from  the  florist's  about  the  deco- 
ration of  one  of  the  rooms. 

"Cuckoo,  dear,  don't  you  think  tulips  would  be  lovely 
in  the  gray  drawing-room  ?  All  yellow  and  white  tulips  ?" 

Cuckoo  kissed  her  aunt.  "Beautiful,  of  course,  but 
horribly  expensive,  you  wicked  woman!" 

Miss  Flora  drew  herself  up. 

"Peregrine  will  not  mind  that,"  she  said  with  pride. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  ball,  Janeways  came  up 
into  Miss  Flora's  room,  looking  troubled. 
"Have  you  seen  Nicoleta?"  he  said. 

The  old  lady,  who  was  rearranging  some  beautiful  old 
lace  on  the  black  silk  gown  Cuckoo  had  given  her  for  the 
party  at  which  she  insisted  she  should  appear,  shook  her 
head. 

"No.  She  went  out  about  three.  She  told  me  where 
she  was  going,  but  I've  forgotten;  my  memory,  Pere- 
grine, is  not  what  it  used  to  be." 

"You  have,"  he  said,  "the  most  beautiful  memory, 
Flora,  because  you  remember  only  kind  things." 

Miss  Flora  smiled  at  him,  the  happy,  new  smile  that 
had  come  to  her,  despite  her  sister's  death,  in  the  last  few 
months.  She  was  useful  now,  and  useful  to  the  man  with 
whonij  for  many  years  in  her  youth,  she  had  been  deeply 
and  quietly  in  love. 

"You  always  say  kind  things  to  me,  Peregrine.  I'm  a 
Tery  happy  old  woman." 

Contrary  to  his  usual  courteous  way,  he  was  not,  she 
saw,  "giving  her  his  undivided  attention.  He  sat  down, 
and  for  a  moment  leaned  his  white  head  on  his  hands. 

"Something  is  wrong,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  Flora,  let's  talk." 

Miss  Flora  laid  aside  her  work  and  drew  a  little  closer 
to  the  fire. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "we'll 'talk.     You  begin,  Peregrine." 

He  looked  up,  and  she  saw  that  his  forehead  was  drawn 
into  a  most  unusual  tangle  of  perplexed  lines. 

428 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"It's  about  Nicoleta,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  what 
it  is."  Miss  Flora  nodded. 

"Yes,  there  has  been  something  for  several  days.  I've 
noticed  it,  too.  She  thought  that  we  should  think  it  was 
excitement  about  the  ball,  but,"  she  added  with  a  little 
laugh,  "we  didn't,  did  we?" 

Janeways  shook  his  head. 

"No.  Do  you  remember.our  talk  the  day  I  sent  young 
Taylor  away  from  Tarring-Peverell,  Flora?" 

"Do  I  remember !  Why,  Peregrine,  it  was  the  happiest 
day  of  my  life;  how  could  I  forget  it?  It  is  just  like  my 
luck,  you  know,  to  have  had  the  happiest  day  at  the  end 
instead  of  the  beginning  of  my  life;  it  makes  old  age  so 
pleasant  a  thing.  Well,  what  about  that  day  ?" 

"I  told  you  then,"  he  returned,  "that  I  feared  I  had 
wronged  Nicoleta.  I  have  been  since  then  growing  surer 
of  it  every  day  and  yet  I  have  had  the  feeling,  or  rather 
the  hope,  that  though  I  rob  her  with  one  hand,  I  might 
be  allowed  to  give  to  her  with  the  other.  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean?" 

"Yes,  I  know.  You've  been  trying  to  educate  her; 
to  develop  her;  you've  been  trying — well,  to  wake  her 
up." 

Janeways  rose  and  walked  restlessly  about  the  room. 

"You're  right.  I  have  tried  very  hard,  and  because 
she's  grateful  for  the  things  I've  given  her — material 
things — and  for  what  she  considers  my  kindness  to  her, 
she  has  been  very  bribable  in  doing  what  I  asked  her. 
She  has  read  many  books  that  at  first  bored  her  to  death, 
and  now  I  find  that  it  is  easier  for  her  to  read  fine  ones ; 
and  good  books  help  everybody.  I  think  she's  beginning 
to  see  that  although  she's  rich  and  has  whatever  she 
wants,  she  yet  has  not  everything  that  she  needs,  or  that 
she  ought  to  want.  In  any  other  woman  I  should  have 
feared  the  coming  of  the  other  man,  but  Cuckoo  is  per- 

429 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

fectly  to  be  trusted  in  that  way.    I  don't  think,"  he  added 
slowly,  "that  she  would  ever  deceive  me." 

Miss  Flora  turned  and  looked  eagerly  at  him,  where 
he  stood  by  the  window.  "She  has  never  been  deceitful 
although  she  has  always  been  reticent." 

"Did  she  ever  tell  you,  Flora,  what  she  once  asked  me 
a  propos  of  George  Loxley?" 

"No." 

"She  once  wanted  me  to  give  her  a  large  sum  of  money 
for  him.  What  do  you  think  I  did?" 

Miss  Flora  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  "I'm  sure," 
she  said,  with  a  queer  little  note  of  pride  in  her  voice, 
"that  whatever  you  did,  it  was  the  right  thing." 

"I  hope  it  was,  and  I  believe  it  was.  I  refused  to  give 
him  a  penny." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  for  Miss  Flora,  in  spite  of  her 
resolution  to  believe  in  his  wisdom,  was,  he  saw,  a  little 
staggered  at  this. 

"Do  you  see  why  I  refused?"  he  asked. 

"No,  Peregrine." 

"Well,  it  was  because  I  wanted  to  see  if  she  would  do 
something  for  him  herself;  if  she  was  sorry  enough  for 
his  condition  of  health  to  sacrifice  to  it,  not  an  unim- 
portant sum  of  my  money,  but  something  that  was  dear 
to  her  personally.  It  was  the  day  I  gave  her  the  ruby, 
and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Flora,  I  told  her  that  she  was 
at  liberty  to  sell  the  ruby  and  give  every  penny  of  the 
money  she  got  for  it  to  Loxley,  if  she  wanted  to." 

Miss  Flora's  hands  fluttered  for  a  moment  in  the  old 
way,  then  she  clasped  them  in  her  lap. 

"And  she  kept  the  ruby?" 

"She  kept  the  ruby." 

"You  were  sorry,  Peregrine?" 

"I  was  very  sorry — and  what  is  more,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  "she  knows — knew  all  along — that  I  was 

430 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

sorry,  and  she's  a  little  ashamed  of  it.  Well,  just  after 
lunch  to-day  I  went  to  see  Lady  Pelter  about  some  busi- 
ness I  am  seeing  to  for  her,  and  Rachel  was  there. 
Rachel  tells  me  that  young  Loxley  is  in  seriously  bad 
health;  she  saw  him,  it  appears.  On  top  of  this  she  told 
me  that  she  had  told  Nicoleta.  I  come  in  and  find  Nico- 
leta  almost  in  a  state  of  hysteria.  I  have  never  before 
seen  her  in  such  a  mental  condition.  I  asked  if  anything 
was  the  matter,  and  she  told  me,"  he  laughed  sadly,  "that 
she  was  nervous  about  the  ball.  Imagine  her  being 
nervous  about  the  ball!  And  now  she's  gone  out." 

Miss  Flora  rose ;  she  was  very  much  agitated. 

"Surely,  Peregrine,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  don't  think 
she's  gone — to  George?" 

Janeways  looked  at  her  almost  sternly.  "No,  of  course 
she  hasn't.  It  would,"  he  added,  as  if  that  settled  the 
matter,  "be  an  improper  thing  to  do — for  her  to  go  and 
see  him  who  was  once  her  husband.  But  I  don't  know — 
I  feel  that  we've  come  to  some  kind  of  a  crisis." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Flora,  "she  has  changed  of  late." 

He  sat  down  again  by  her,  and  taking  her  old  hand, 
kissed  it. 

"No,  Flora,  I  don't  think  she's  changed,"  he  said.  "I 
think  she's  grown." 

He  meant  so  much  by  this  that  Miss  Flora  was  silent 
for  a  while,  and,  before  the  silence  was  broken,  Cuckoo 
came  in.  She  had  returned  quite  to  her  usual  manner — 
the  manner  that  had  newly  become  usual  to  her.  She 
rang  for  tea  and  poured  it  out  for  them  and  herself, 
talking  quietly  about  the  ball  and  looking  with  real  inter- 
est at  Aunt  Flora's  new  gown. 

Janeways  watched  her  in  almost  unbroken  silence,  and 
at  last  he  said:  "Where  have  you  been,  my  dear?" 

She  looked  at  him,  her  clear  eyes  suddenly  veiled  secret 
places. 

431 


THE  BA'G  OF  SAFFRON' 

"In  Chelsea,"  she  said,  "walking,  and  then  I  went  to 
Bond  Street,  and  then  I  stopped  to  see  Aunt  Marcia  for 
a  moment.  Where  have  you  been?" 

At  the  mention  of  Chelsea,  Janeways  and  Miss  Flora 
looked  at  each  other,  and  Miss  Flora  suddenly  rose  to  a 
height  of  valor  that  surprised  herself. 

"Have  you  heard,"  she  asked,  her  voice  trembling  a 
little,  "anything  about  George  of  la'te,  Cuckoo?" 

Cuckoo  looked  at  her  with  the  fine  gravity  she  had  learnt 
since  her  marriage — a  gravity  that  had  always  distin- 
guished Janeways  even  in  his  wildest  days  and  which  she 
seemed  to  have  caught  from  him. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Flora,  poor  George  is  very  ill  I  fear.  I 
saw  him  coming  out  of  a  shop  in  the  King's  Road." 

"Oh,  poor  boy!  You — of  course — you  didn't  speak  to 
him?" 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head  and  poured  out  tea. 

"Oh,  no,  I  could  hardly  do  that.  I  don't  think  he 
would  have  liked  it;  besides,  he  was  not  alone.  He  was 
with,"  she  added  quietly,  "a  girl,  a  very  pretty  girl  with 
red  hair." 

Miss  Flora,  unjustly  and  ridiculously,  felt  a  little 
shocked  by  this  piece  of  news,  but  Janeways  it  was  who 
answered. 

"I'm  afraid  the  poor  fellow  will  never  be  strong,"  he 
said,  "as  long  as  he  lives  in  this  vile  climate." 

Cuckoo  said  nothing  and,  after  a  moment,  left  the 
room.  She  went  to  her  own  room  and,  looking  at  the 
clock,  saw  that  she  had  two  hours  in  which  to  collect 
her  thoughts.  So,  putting  on  her  dressing-gown,  she  lay 
down  on  a  sofa  by  the  fire  and  switched  off  the  lights. 
Into  the  whirl  of  emotion  she  had  lived  in  for  the  last 
three  hours  and  which  she  had  shut  away  in  her  mind  so 
long  as  she  was  in  Miss  Flora's  room,  came  now  the  other 
pang,  that  she  had  thus  far  kept  at  bay — jealousy.  She 

432 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

told  herself  that  it  was  absurd;  that  no  one  on  earth 
had  as  little  right  as  she  to  be  jealous  of  George  Loxley 
or  anything  he  did.  But  her  telling  herself  this  did  no 
good.  She  could  see  them  now  as  they  came  out  of  the 
shop,  George  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  companion,  much 
as  the  young  man  on  the  Embankment  had  done  that  day 
— the  young  man  whom  she  had  at  first  taken  for  George. 
And  the  girl  was  so  pretty — so  pretty,  with  such  a  fine, 
radiant  air  of  youth  and  health,  in  spite  of  her  obvious 
poverty;  she  looked  like  a  Spring  day  that  had  strayed 
by  chance  into  the  wilds  of  November ;  she  looked  like  an 
apple-tree  blossoming  in  the  sun. 

In  the  firelit  darkness  Cuckoo  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  in  shame  at  what  she  had  done,  for  she  had  followed 
them  up  the  crowded  King's  Road  and  seen  them  dis- 
appear round  the  corner  of  Barker  Street.  That  was 
bad  enough,  but  she  had  done  worse ;  after  walking  for 
an  hour  trying  to  quell  the  tumult  that  had  arisen  in  her, 
she  had  gone  to  Whistler  Mansions  and,  after  studying 
the  address-board  in  the  hall,  she  had  called  on  Miss 
Carson. 

The  girl  was  at  home  and  alone,  sitting  by  the  window 
at  a  little  table  painting.  Under  the  pretext  of  having 
heard  of  her  fans  somewhere,  Lady  Janeways  went  in, 
bought  a  fan,  and  sat  by  the  fire  to  dry  her  wet  feet, 
she  said.  Miss  Carson,  of  course  not  suspecting  who  she 
was,  and  grateful  for  the  unexpected  sale,  talked  without 
reserve  of  her  work,  and,  in  an  innocent  way,  of  her  own 
life.  Cuckoo  learned  that  her  father  was  dead  and  that 
her  mother  lived  in  Bristol,  which  she  couldn't  leave  be- 
cause her  two  little  sons  were  at  school  there.  Miss 
Carson  herself  had  been  living  in  the  Mansions  for  the 
past  year  and  liked  it  very  much. 

"Don't  you  long  to  go  back  to  Bristol?"  Cuckoo  had 
asked,  and  a  bright  flush  had  spread  over  the  girl's  face. 

433 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

No,  she  didn't  want  to  go  back  to  Bristol ;  she  liked  Lon- 
don ;  she  was  very  comfortable  in  the  Buildings.  Cuckoo, 
sick  with  shame  yet  driven  by  wild  curiosity  to  go  on, 
then  asked  her  if  she  had  many  friends  in  London. 

"No ;  I  only  know  one  or  two  people.  I've  some  cousins 
in  Cricklewood,  but  I  don't  see  much  of  them.  I  have 
one  friend  living  here,  of  whom  I  see  a  good  deal — 

Cuckoo  looked  the  other  way.     "Is  she  a  painter  too?" 

Nina  Carson  shook  her  head  and  blushed  again. 

"Yes,  but  it  isn't  a  'she ;'  it's  a  'he.'  Oh,  yes,  he  paints 
beautifully.  He's  taught  me  a  good  deal.  I'm  expecting 
him  down  any  minute,  he's  promised  to  put  in  the  figures 
on  the  little  Trianol  fan — that  parchment  one  on  your 
left." 

Cuckoo  rose.  "You're  very  lucky  to  have  someone  to 
help  you,"  she  said  kindly;  but  something  in  her  voice 
made  the  girl  stare.  "Do  tell  me  your  name,  won't  you," 
she  said,  "and  who  told  you  about  me?  He — George — 
would  be  so  interested." 

"My  name  is  Bunbury,"  Cuckoo  returned,  in  involun- 
tary tribute  to  Oscar  Wilde's  delightful  play.  "I  can't 
remember  who  told  me  about  you;  however,  it  doesn't 
matter,  as  I've  got  the  fan." 

A  few  minutes  later  she  had  found  herself  in  the  street, 
and  now,  in  her  beautiful  room,  surrounded  by  all  her 
"things,"  she  was  in  such  a  turmoil  of  misery  and  jeal- 
ousy as  she  had  never  in  her  life  experienced. 

She  was  too  confused,  too  upset,  to  be  able  to  analyze 
her  feelings  or  even  to  set  them  in  order  and  look  at 
them  squarely.  Everything  seemed  in  a  whirl  round  her. 
She  didn't  want  poverty;  she  certainly  wasn't  in  love 
with  George  again — she  was  quite  sure  about  that — she 
didn't  know  what  she  wanted ;  she  didn't  know  even  what 
she  did  not  want.  If  it  had  been  about  anything  else  in 
the  world,  she  would  have  gone  to  Janeways  and  told  him. 

434 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

But  that  she  could  not  do.  Presently  she  rose,  and  took 
from  its  hiding-place  her  great  leather  jewel-case,  and, 
locking  the  doors  of  her  bedroom,  she  turned  on  the  lights 
and  spread  all  the  jewels  out  on  the  lace  counterpane; 
and  there  they  lay  and  sparkled  at  her.  She  took  them 
in  her  hands,  let  the  light  play  on  them ;  she  pressed  the 
pearls  to  her  cheek;  she  covered  her  little  fingers  with 
rings  and  waved  her  hands  to  herself  in  the  glass.  Here, 
here  were  her  "things" ;  the  things  she  had  always  wanted, 
the  things  she  had  achieved. 

When  Marthe  came  in  to  dress  her,  she  found  her 
mistress  sitting  quietly  by  the  fire,  reading. 

Miss  Flora  came  in  just  before  dinner,  an  ethereal,  un- 
substantial, but  delightfully  pretty  Miss  Flora;  and 
pinned  to  the  lace  in  the  front  of  her  gown  was  a  beautiful 
diamond  brooch. 

"Cuckoo,  look,  look,  my  dear,  what  Peregrine  has  given 
me!"  the  old  lady  cried,  skipping  just  a  little,  old  as  she 
was,  in  her  joy. 

Cuckoo  kissed  her.  "I  am  glad,  dear  Aunt  Flora. 
That  was  kind  of  him,  wasn't  it?" 

Miss  Flora  left  her  and  went  down  to  the  library  where 
she  knew  Janeways  would  be.  When  she  thanked  him 
for  the  gift,  which  had  been  sent  her  in  a  bunch  of  violets, 
he  took  her  hands  and  swung  them  out  to  her  full  length 
and  then  back  again,  in  a  boyish  kind  of  way. 

"Flora,"  he  said,  "here  we  stand,  you  and  I,  an  old 
man  and  an  old  woman " 

"I'm  years  older  than  you,  Peregrine,"  she  broke  in. 

" — Waiting  for  something  to  happen.  The  feeling  is 
strong  on  me.  If  anything  should  happen  to-night  after 
the  ball  has  begun,  may  I  come  straight  to  you?" 

"Peregrine  Janeways,"  the  old  woman  said  steadily, 
"if  my  death  would  do  you  or  Cuckoo  the  least  little  bit 

435 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

of  good  in  the  world,  I  would  gladly  die  for  you  to-night." 

He  was  moved  by  her  earnestness,  but  he  laughed  softly. 
"I  don't  want  you  to  die  for  me,  but  I  may  want  you  to 
get  up  at  an  ungodly  hour  and  let  me  talk  to  you,  for  I 
know  something  is  going  to  happen.  We've  come  to  the 
end  of  a  chapter;  we've  come  to  the  end  of  a  period; 
we  are  going  to  have  to  begin  over,  old  as  we  are,  my 
dear." 

Miss  Flora  looked  at  him  and  saw  that  he  was  very 
grave  under  his  smile. 

"Then  we'll  begin  over,  the  best  way  we  can,"  she  an- 
swered. "Be  sure  you  come  if  you  need  me.  And  now," 
she  added,  emboldened  and  less  titubating  than  usual,  for 
now  that  he  really  needed  her  her  old  timidity  had  gone, 
"I've  a  favor  to  ask  you." 

"It's  granted." 

"No,  no,  wait  till  you  hear  what  it  is,  Peregrine.  To- 
night is  a  very  important  night  for  Cuckoo.  Oh,  I  don't 
mean  something  we  don't  know  about,  the  way  you  mean, 
but  I  mean  this  dinner  and  the  ball.  It's  going  to  be  very 
splendid  and  she's  going  to  be  very  proud,  and  I  want  you 
— oh,  Pelly,  please  let  her  wear  the  Bag  of  Saffron." 

After  a  pause,  Janeways  answered,  very  quietly: 

"I'm  sorry,  Flora,  but  I  can't.  If  I'd  a  son,  or  possibly 
even  a  daughter,  he  or  she  would  understand;  it's  in  our 
blood.  But  I  couldn't  make  you  understand,  and  I 
sha'n't  try." 

"But  people  know  about  it,  Peregrine.  Blanche  Pelter 
was  talking  about  it  only  a  few  days  ago,  and  it  appears 
people  have  asked  her  why  your  wife  doesn't  wear  it." 

Janeways  frowned.  "It  doesn't  follow  that  because  I 
have  a  wife  she  must  wear  the  thing;  neither  of  my  two 
former  wives  wore  it,  as  you  know.  Besides,  it's  a  hideous 
thing.  The  diamonds,  though  very  good,  are  not  so  fine 
as  others  I  have  given  Nicoleta." 

436 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"For  all  that,"  Miss  Flora  persisted,  "I  wish  you  would 
let  her,  even  if  it  is  only  this  once." 

Janeways  put  one  of  his  hands  on  each  of  her  shoulders 
and  looked  closely  into  her  beautiful  old  eyes. 

"I  am  almost  inclined,"  he  said  gently,  "to  offer  to 
let  you  wear  it,  my  very  dear  Flora,  but  I  can't  let 
Nicoleta.  Please  don't  ask  me  again." 

Miss  Flora  went  sorrowfully  away.  She  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  brooch  on  her  own  bodice. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

MISS  FLORA  lived  several  years  after  that  night, 
but  she  never  forgot  one  single  incident  of  it. 
She  had  lived  so  long  quietly  in  the  country  that 
she  was  apt  to  become  confused  when  she  found  herself 
with  many  people ;  her  memories  even  of  the  house-parties 
at  Tarring-Peverell  had  been  blurred,  and  overlapped  a 
little ;  she  could  not  quite  remember  which  of  two  episodes 
had  been  before  the  other,  and  so  on.  But  the  great  ball 
— the  ball  that  had  been  given  after  many  months  of 
wary  and  skilful  waiting  by  Janeways — was  destined  to 
remain  in  her  mind  so  long  as  she  lived,  perfectly  clear 
and  sharp. 

Cuckoo,  looking  better  than  she  had  ever  looked  in 
her  life,  all  in  white,  with  her  best  jewels,  seemed  to  Miss 
Flora,  as  she  received  her  guests,  to  have  an  odd  air  of 
conferring  on  them  the  honor  and  pardon  they  were  in 
reality  supposed  to  be  bestowing  on  her.  Even  the 
Duchess — that  greatest  of  Duchesses,  Her  Grace  of 
Trafalgar — seemed  to  lose  in  majesty  as  she  shook  hands 
with  the  little  nobody  whom  that  old  fool,  Pelly  Jane- 
ways,  had  run  away  with.  The  Duchess  had  hated  the 
idea  of  Cuckoo  and  opposed  with  all  her  might  the  recep- 
tion into  the  fold  of  the  dingy  little  mutton.  Miss  Flora, 
who  was  standing  on  the  landing  above,  peering  down,  too 
excited  to  move,  knew  this,  and  observed  with  joy  the 
gracious,  unflattered  air  of  the  little  gray  mutton  in 
question. 

"She  looks  better  than  any  of  them,  Pelly,"  the  old 
lady  whispered  to  Janeways  a  little  later,  when  the  danc- 

438 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

ing  had  begun  and  she  had  chanced  to  meet  him  as  she 
went  into  the  library. 

He  laughed.  "She  does — she's  exceeding  magnifical, 
Flora.  God  bless  her,"  he  added  gently. 

Miss  Flora  saw  that  he  looked  pale  and  that  his  ex- 
treme pallor,  against  the  snowy  whiteness  of  his  hair, 
seemed  to  have  taken  on  a  yellowish  tinge. 

"Are  you  not  well?"  she  asked  hastily. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  am  quite  well." 

They  stood  together  for  a  moment  unobserved  in  the 
softly  lighted  library,  and  Miss  Flora  could  hardly  have 
been  prouder  of  him,  possibly  not  so  proud,  if  she  had 
been  his  wife.  He  was  so  very  handsome,  so  very  dis- 
tinguished-looking, she  thought. 

"Do  you  still  feel,"  she  asked  him,  "that  something  is 
going  to  happen?" 

He  nodded  gravely.  "Yes.  To-night,  you  see,  is  an 
etape — a  kind  of  station,  a  milestone  on  the  Dover  Road, 
Flora.  We've  all  of  us  come  to  an  end,  as  I  told  you 
before  dinner,  and  in  order  to  make  a  new  beginning, 
something  must  happen.  However,  my  dear  and  beau- 
tiful friend,  will  you  do  me  the  honor  of  walking  through 
the  ballroom  with  me?  I  wish  to  introduce  you  to  one 
or  two  people." 

Miss  Flora  took  his  arm,  and  they  went  through  the 
white  drawing-room  into  the  ballroom.  The  orchestra 
was  playing  a  waltz,  and  Miss  Flora,  on  listening  to  it 
with  a  keenness  of  delight  that  had,  on  her  first  hearing 
music  in  London,  surprised  herself,  recognized  with 
amazement  a  melody  that  seemed  to  be  threaded  through 
the  dance  music. 

"What  is  that  thing  th'ey  are  playing?"  she  asked, 
her  violet  eyes  full  of  light. 

"I  don't  know;  it's  a  waltz." 

"Yes,  but — it's  something  I  know.'*  And  then,  as  they 

439 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

walked  across  the  great  room  close  to  the  wall,  Miss  Flora 
Plues  blushed  as  violently,  as  beautifully  as  if  she  had 
been  eighteen.  She  had  recognized  the  melody  and  it  was 
the  "Wedding  March,"  Mendelssohn's  "Wedding  March," 
adapted  to  waltz  time  by  the  caprice  and  cunning  of  some 
transatlantic  composer.  And  here  t  was  she — Flora 
Angela  Plues — marching  to  it  down  the  huge  room, 
crowded  with  fine  people,  with  her  hand  on  Peregrine 
Janeways'  arm !  To  that  tune ! 

Janeways  did  not  notice,  but  Miss  Flora  kept  time, 
with  an  exactitude  that  somewhat  impeded  her  progress, 
to  the  subdominant  melody,  and  several  times  when  they 
stopped  and  Janeways  introduced  her  as  his  dear  and 
old  friend  and  his  wife's  aunt,  Miss  Plues,  of  Wiskedale, 
Miss  Flora's  little  old  feet,  instead  of  keeping  still  under 
her  lavish  silken  skirts,  continued  in  spite  of  herself  to 
beat  time  to  the  music.  It  was  a  wonderful  moment  to 
the  old  lady. 

Cuckoo  was  waltzing,  and  passed  her  husband  and  her 
aunt  as  they  reached  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and, 
pausing,  she  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  and  blew  them 
a  little  kiss  and  smiled. 

"I  wonder,"  Janeways  said  thoughtfully,  "what  it  is 
that  is  going  to  happen?  Something  somewhere  is  on  its 
way  to  us — the  Lame  Messenger  is  coming." 

And  while  the  music  played  and  the  freshness  of  the 
thousands  of  flowers  gradually  dwindled  to  the  faintly 
unpleasant  scent  flowers  have  in  great  crowds;  while 
minor  Royalty  looked  on  with  the  resigned  amiability  of 
its  kind,  and  London  Society  finally  gave  its  definite  con- 
sent to  the  return  to  the  fold  of  the  naughty  Lady  Jane- 
ways,  the  messenger,  limping  indeed,  was  coming  to  St. 
James's  Square.  A  lame  messenger  in  a  groggy  bonnet 
and  a  dirty,  crumpled  black  jacket;  a  messenger  lame, 
not  through  having  flayed  her  feet  for  love,  but  because 

440 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

the  high-heeled  old  boots  she  wore  cramped  and  squeezed 
her  neglected  toes.  Mrs.  Peacock,  having  left  her  bus 
at  Piccadilly  Circus,  was  hobbling  down  Lower  Regent 
Street  through  a  fall  of  dirty  snow.  The  shifty-eyed  old 
woman  hurried  along  through  the  wet,  muttering  to  her- 
self under  her  red  and  discouraged  looking  nose.  She 
wanted  a  drink,  but  there  was  not  time,  and  besides, 
despite  the  general  inferiority  of  her  nature,  she  was  really 
alarmed  and  horrified  by  the  news  she  was  bringing. 
When  she  rang  at  the  area  bell  of  Jane  ways'  house,  she 
was  made  to  understand  at  once  that  her  visit  was  not 
only  unwelcome,  but,  on  that  night  of  high  revelry,  abso- 
lutely unacceptable  to  the  powers  of  the  kitchen. 

"I  tell  ye,"  she  said,  "I  'ave  to  see  'er  laidyship.  I've 
got  noos  for  'er — important  noos." 

"A  likely  story  that!"  sneered  one  of  the  servants, 
with  the  ugly,  vulgar  heartlessness  of  the  well-fed,  com- 
fortably-housed dependent  towards  one  of  the  lowest  of 
his  kind. 

Mrs.  Peacock  whimpered  and  pleaded,  but  in  vain.  At 
last,  spurred  by  the  memory  of  the  scene  she  had  just 
left,  she  lost  her  temper  and  burst  out  into  a  few  words 
that  gave  pause  to  her  tormentors. 

"If  ye  don't  let  me  in,"  she  wound  up,  "it'll  cost  you 
yer  jawb,  I  can  tell  ye.  She  told  me  to  come,  'er  laidyship 
did.  I've  got  a  message  for  'er,  and  you'd  better  let 
me  in." 

Something  in  her  voice  brought  conviction  to  one  of 
the  maid-servants,  and  seeing  that  the  woman  was  really 
cold  and  wet  and  that  under  her  unpleasant  aggressive- 
ness there  was  something  like  real  fright,  she  called  her 
in  and  gave  her  a  chair. 

"I'll  go  and  get  hold  of  one  of  the  footmen,"  she  said, 
"if  you'll  tell  me  your  name?" 

"Peacock's  my  name — Mrs.  Peacock.  She'll  remember 

441 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

— 'er    laidjship    will.      You    tell    'er    I've    come    from 
Chelsea " 

It  must  have  been  nearly  half  an  hour  afterwards  that 
the  maid-servant  came  down  again. 

"You're  to  go  up,"  she  said;  "wipe  your  boots  good. 
Come  along." 

Mrs.  Peacock  followed  her  up  the  stairs,  at  the  head 
of  which  she  was  handed  over  to  a  young  footman,  who 
surveyed  her  with  intentionally  visible  disfavor.  The  poor 
woman  on  her  upward  career  caught  short  glimpses  of 
beautiful,  brilliantly-lighted  rooms,  and  heard  snatches  of 
music,  only  to  be  compared  with  the  music  of  the  Guards' 
Band  in  the  Park  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  Finally  the 
young  man  stopped  and  opened  a  door. 

"You're  to  go  in  here  and  wait,"  he  said.  But  Mrs. 
Peacock  had  not  to  wait  long.  The  room  that  she  was 
in  was  a  small  sewing-room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and 
through  the  open  door  the  music  still  reached  her;  she 
stood  listening,  until  Lady  Janeways  came  in. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  sharply. 

"Oh,  your  laidyship !  Your  laidyship  promised  me  five 
pounds  if  I'd  give  ye  any  noos  of  the  pore  gentleman,  so 

I  thought "     Mrs.   Peacock  broke   off,   rubbing  her 

uninviting-looking  hands  together  and  glancing  upward 
in  a  cringing  way  that  made  Cuckoo  want  to  beat  her. 

"What  is  the  news?" 

"Well — me  and  Mrs.  Briggs  was  sittin'  over  the  fire 
in  'er  'ouse  an  hour  ago — or  maybe  hour  and  a'  'alf — 
when  the  porter  from  Whistler  Mansions  come  over  to 
fetch  'er.  We  was  just  'avin  a  cup  o*  tea " 

"What's  your  news?"  Cuckoo  repeated,  stamping  her 
foot. 

Mrs.  Peacock  felt  aggrieved,  and  showed  it.  Like 
other  people,  when  she  had  a  good  story  to  tell,  she  liked 
to  tell  it  in  her  own  way. 

442 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Mr.  White,"  she  retorted  with  dignity,  "said,  'would 
Mrs.  Briggs  come  hover  to  the  gentleman  in  Number 
fifty-nine?'  So  we  went  hover,  and  oh,  ma'am — my  lady* 
I  mean — the  pore  gentleman,  the  pore  gentleman!"  and 
Mrs.  Peacock,  who  did  not  need  alcohol  as  much  as  she 
thought  she  did,  began  to  cry — tears  whose  source  was 
not  unconnected  with  the  "Lamb  and  Compasses"  at  the 
corner  of  Barker  Street  and  Weaver  Street,  S.W. 

Lady  Janeways,  whose  face  had  lost  every  vestige  of 
color,  laid  her  hand  on  the  woman's  dirty  jacket. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "tell  me  at  once!  Is 
Mr.  Loxley  ill?" 

"111!"  Mrs.  Peacock  gave  a  little  shiver  and  drew  her 
wrist  across  her  face.  "If  blood  all  over  the  floor  is 
bein'  ill,  then  'e  is.  In  a  dead  faint  we  found  'im, 
and » 

Lady  Janeways,  who  had  evidently  not  forgotten  her 
bargain,  handed  her  a  five-pound  note. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "you  may  go  now;  and  hold 
your  tongue  downstairs." 

As  the  woman  started  'to  the  door,  Lady  Janeways 
called  her  back. 

"Wait  a  minute.    Was  Mr.  Loxley  absolutely  alone?" 

"Habsolutely,  except  for  Miss  Carson,  wot  paints  fans 
I— she  was  there.  They'd  been  'avin'  supper." 

"Take  this  woman  downstairs,  Judson."  The  young 
footman,  who  had  been  hovering  in  the  passage,  led  Mrs. 
Peacock  away. 

Five  minutes  later,  Janeways,  crossing  the  lower  hall 
with  one  of  his  guests,  saw  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  a  little 
figure  wrapped  in  a  long  black  cloak.  Excusing  himself, 
he  went  towards  her;  supper  had  begun,  and  that  part 
of  the  house  was  nearly  deserted;  Janeways  had  only  a 
moment  to  himself,  having  just  seen  the  guest-in-chief  to- 

443 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

her  car  and  intending  to  devote  himself  to  the  next  hungry 
lady  of  rank.  He  walked  towards  his  wife  and  met  her 
~at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Cuckoo  looked  at  him. 

**I  want  a  taxi,"  she  said. 
;     ""Where  are  you  going?" 

"She  was  very  white,  and  he  noticed  that  her  lips  looked 
clry  as  if  she  had  had  fever  and  stuck  to  her  teeth  as  she 
spoke. 

"George  is  dying,"  she  said  slowly. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  library,  and  without  answer- 
ing, Janeways  drew  her  into  the  room  and  closed  the 
door. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked. 

She  stared  at  him,  and  he  could  see  the  whites  of  her 
eyes  above  the  irises,  but  she  did  not  answer. 

He  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  "You  mustn't  go 
out  now.  You  must  remember  your  guests.  To-morrow 
I  will  go  with  you  and  we'll  do  for  him  all  that  can  be 
done." 

The  invisible  spectator  of  whom  mention  has  been  made 
before,  had  he  been  there,  would  have  noticed  on  the  old 
man's  face  an  odd,  watchful,  almost  artful  look. 

"I  will  help  you,"  he  went  on. 

"She  said — blood — on  the  floor.  His  mother  died  of 
consumption,"  Cuckoo  answered,  not  heeding  what  he 
had  said. 

Then  Peregrine  Janeways  did  something  very  odd. 
"Do  you  wish,"  he  asked  slowly,  his  eyes  bent  on  hers, 
"do  you  wish  him  to  get  well?" 

AS  again  she  did  not  answer,  he  went  on.  "Then  I 
will  help  you.  Shall  I  sell  for  you  some  of  your 
jewels?" 

"Some  of  my  jewels ?" 

"Yes.    If  you  let  me  sell  your  ruby  it  would  probably 

save  his  life " 

444 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

As  he  spoke  the  orchestra  in  the  distant  ballroom  began 
to  play  some  kind  of  an  interlude.  It  was  a  medley  of 
American  negro  songs,  which,  at  that  time,  were  popular. 
Cuckoo  stared  over  her  husband's  head,  her  eyes  dilated, 
her  mouth  half  open. 

"  *Nellie  was  a  lady :  last  night  she  (died,' "  she  said 
softly,  under  her  breath. 

Janeways  watched  her,  in  his  eyes  an  agony  of  hope 
and  distress  mingled  in  a  way  that  would  greatly  have 
puzzled  that  hypothetical  spectator,  and  then  suddenly 
she  raised  her  hands,  tearing  from  her  neck  the  rreat 
ruby  that  hung  there,  and  wrenching  at  the  diamonds  at 
her  breast.  Some  of  the  things  she  dropped  without 
heeding,  the  others  she  held  out  and  pressed  into  his 
hands. 

"Take  them,"  she  said,  "take  'them,  the  horrible  dread- 
ful things.  I  hate  them.  I  hate — everything.  I — I'm 
going." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Nicoleta?" 

Almost  as  if  she  had  been  asleep,  she  passed  her  hand 
over  her  eyes,  and  then,  her  face  clearing,  she  answered 
him. 

"Forgive  me,  Peregrine,"  she  said  gently.  "I  shouldn't 
have  spoken  like  that.  But  George  is  dying,  and  I'm 
going  to  him.  You  see,  he  is  really  my  husband — not 
you."  And  without  a  word  more  she  left  him  and  went 
out  into  the  night. 

He  followed  her,  called  a  taxi  and  put  her  into  it. 

"Tell  him  Whistler  Mansions,  Barker  Street,  King's 
Read,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  him.  And  the  taxi 
turned  round  and  carried  her  off. 

Janeways  went  back  into  the  house,  had  a  stiff  brandy 
and  soda,  and  the  next  half-hour  was  very  busy  doing 
his  duties  as  host.  He  explained  to  his  guests  that  his 
wife  was  ill  and  that  he  had  insisted  on  her  going  to  her 

445 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

room ;  "I  think  she'll  be  quite  all  right,"  he  added,  "in  an 
hour's  time." 

When  everyone  was  busy  with  supper,  and  he  had  made 
sure  that  Cuckoo's  absence  would  cause  no  discussion, 
he  went  up  and  found  Miss  Flora.  The  old  lady  had 
put  on  her  dressing-gown,  and  was  sitting  by  the  fire 
drinking  a  glass  of  milk. 

v   ail  have  just  come  to  tell  you,  Flora,"  he  said,  "that 
everything  is  all  right,  and  that  I  am  very  happy." 

Miss  Flora  looked  up.    "Has  anything  happened?" 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  I  think  so.  I  think  the  best  thing 
of  all  has  happened,  and  I  thought  I'd  come  and  tell  you. 
I'll  explain  to-morrow." 

Bending  over,  he  tilted  her  little  old  face  back  with  his 
hand  and  kissed  her. 

"Good-night,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I  shall  have  much  to 
tell  you  to-morrow." 

Half  an  hour  later  a  girl  who  was  sitting  on  the  stairs, 
wrapped  in  her  cloak,  at  Whistler  Mansions,  was  startled 
and  frightened  by  footsteps  coming  towards  her.  She  rose 
Jiastily,  wiping  her  eyes,  and  faced  the  newcomer. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Loxley." 

"He's — I'm  afraid  he  can't  see  anybody,"  she  said. 
"He's  been  very  ill.  The  doctor  has  just  gone." 

Janeways  looked  at  her  in  a  way  that  would  have  been 
stern  but  for  the  wonderful  glow  in  his  big  eyes. 

"You  must  let  me  in,"  he  said.  "I'm  Sir  Peregrine 
Janeways,  and  a  very  old  friend  of  the  family." 

Miss  Carson,  who  painted  fans,  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"There's  a  lady  there,"  she  said.  "I  don't  think  they 
want  anybody." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  then  Janeways 
went  on: 

• 

"When  the  lady  came  were  you  in  the  room?" 

446 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  trust  me  enough  to  tell  me 
what  happened?" 

The  poor  little  girl,  whose  promise  of  happiness  had  an 
hour  ago  been  knocked  sky-high,  looked  at  him  and  she 
did  trust  him. 

"Oh,  she  just  came  in" — she  answered  wearily.  "He 
had  just  come  out  of  his  faint.  I'd  got  the  doctor,  and 
— well,  it  was  just  as  if  they  belonged  to  each  other — 
so  I'm  going  home." 

Janeways  helped  her  to  her  feet,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder. 

"They  do  belong  to  each  other,  my  dear,"  he  said 
gently.  "He'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  no  doubt,  in  good 
time.  In  the  meantime  will  you  promise  me  to  tell  nobody 
one  word  about  it?" 

This  was  a  little  too  much  for  Miss  Carson,  who  did  not 
see  what  he  had  to  do  with  it  and  who  said  so. 

Janeways  smiled.  "But  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
it,"  he  retorted.  "You  see,  I'm  her  husband." 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  after  the  silent 
use  of  poor  Miss  Carson's  key  Janeways  took  off  his  hat 
and  felt  in  his  pocket  for  something.  Then  very  quietly 
he  walked  to  the  end  of  the  passage. 

A  generous  fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth,  but  only 
one  electric  light  was  lit,  so  that  the  big,  dusty  room  had 
lost  its  simplicity  of  shape  and  seemed  to  be  full  of 
mystery.  In  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  his  ruffled  fair  hair 
standing  out  against  the  light  behind  him,  lay  George 
Loxley,  his  head  against  a  pillow  no  whiter  than  his 
face;  his  eyes  were  shut,  and  at  first  Janeways  thought 
he  was  asleep.  At  his  feet,  half-kneeling,  half-crouching, 
was  Cuckoo,  her  cheek  leaned  against  one  of  the  sick 
man's  hands,  her  eyes  filled  with  the  firelight.  For  the 
first  time,  she  looked,  to  Peregrine,  like  a  wife. 

447 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Presently  Loxley  spoke. 

"Are  you  there?"  His  voice  had  an  exhausted  sound, 
and  he  hardly  moved  his  lips. 

Bending  forward,  listening  acutely,  Janeways  waited 
for  the  answer.  Never,  even  to  Miss  Flora,  did  he  tell 
what  it  was  that  Cuckoo  answered,  but  it  was  enough. 
Purposely  he  moved  a  little,  so  that  the  two  by  the  fire 
looked  up  and  saw  him.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  but  they 
drew  closer  together,  and  Cuckoo's  left  hand  went  up  and 
joined  George's  right.  Janeways  advanced  slowly  out  of 
the  darkness,  his  two  hands  held  before  him  in  an  odd 
way,  almost  as  a  man  holds  a  skein  of  wool  that  some 
woman  is  winding,  and  from  his  hands  there  seemed  to 
drop  great  splashes  of  fiery  light.  Without  a  word  he 
came  to  the  fireplace,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  wife's.  She 
did  not  rise,  and  he  could  see  her  press  closer  to  Loxley, 
but  as  he  reached  her  she  spoke. 

"Hush,"  she  said ;  "he  mustn't  be  agitated " 

Still  Janeways  did  not  speak,  but  bending  over  her,  he 
passed  his  hands  above  her  head,  and  opened  them.  She 
looked  down.  The  Bag  of  Saffron  hung  round  her  neck. 
She  took  the  little,  inadequate  bauble  in  her  hand,  and 
looked  up  at  him. 

"Why?" 

He  smiled,  and  there  was  in  his  smile  an  extraordinary 
nobility  and  sweetness. 

"Because,  my  dear,  you  have  earned  it  to-night."  And 
then  he  sat  down  and  explained  to  them. 

"At  last  you've  found,"  he  said,  "what  it  is  that  you 
have  always  wanted,  and  I,  who  have  always  feared  that 
through  my  act  you  had  lost  the  power  to  know,  am  glad. 
When  you  told  me,  Nicoleta,  there  in  the  library,  that  you 
were  going  to  your  husband,  you  told  me  only  what  I 
had  known  for  a  very  long  time  and  what  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you  to  learn." 

448 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

Loxley  had  not  spoken,  but,  at  these  words,  he  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  the  old  man.  Janeways  took  it. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh  that  eased  the 
strain  they  were  all  under,  "that  not  many  men  have 
been  as  relieved  as  I  was  under  the  circumstances.  No- 
thing for  many  years  has  made  me  so  happy  as  your 
suddenly  finding  that  I,  and  all  I  stood  for,  were  not 
worth  while." 

She  made  a  little  gesture  of  protest,  but  he  went  on. 

"I  mean  in  the  right  way.  To  have  you  see,  even  now 
so  late  in  the  day,  that  jewels  and  riches,  after  all,  count 
very  little,  made  me  more  happy  than  I  can  tell  you. 
To  have  you  leave  me  to-night  of  all  nights — and,  mark 
you,  I  knew  that  something  was  going  to  happen  and 
that  it  would  happen  in  a  dramatic  way — has  given  me  a 
degree  of  thankfulness  and  real  contentment  that  I  can- 
not explain.  You  love  each  other,"  he  broke  off  sharply 
to  say. 

Cuckoo  answered.  "Yes,  I  think  I  always  have  loved 
George,  only  I  was  such  a  fool  I  didn't  know  it." 

"But  you've  known  more  or  less  since  your  adventure 
in  the  old  lead  mine?" 

She  stared  at  him.     "How  did  you  know,  Peregrine?" 

He  rose.  "My  dear,  I  have  the  privilege  of  knowing  a 
great  deal  about  women,  and  that  was  quite  plain.  But 
now,"  he*  added,  rising  and  taking  from  a  chair  her  cloak 
which  she  had  thrown  there,  "we  must  be  going." 

Cuckoo  drew  back.  "I'm  not  going.  I  shall  never  leave 
him  again." 

Janeways  smiled.  "Don't  be  a  goose,  my  dear.  No 
woman  can  possibly  survive  two  scandals!  George,  tell 
her  she  must  go  with  me.  I  have  telephoned  for  a  nurse 
for  you.  She  ought  to  be  here  by  now,  and  the  kind 
little  girl  I  met  on  the  stairs  will,  I  am  sure,  do  anything 
she  can  to  help  you.  But  Nicoleta  must  come  back  home 

449 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

with  me.  Don't  say  you  can't,  my  dear,"  he  added 
sternly,  "for  you  can  and  you  must." 

Loxley  raised  his  head  a  little.  "Quite  right,"  he  cried, 
hoarsely.  "Do  what  he  says,  Nicky.  But — you'll  let  her 
come  hack,"  he  went  on,  adding,  with  an  odd  little  rever- 
sion to  his  boyish  way  of  speech,  "won't  you — sir?" 

Cuckoo  had  risen,  and  her  husband  threw  the  cloak 
round  her. 

"She  will  come  back  in  time,  Loxley,"  the  old  man  said. 
"You  mustn't  be  impatient,  either  of  you.  You  may 
have  to  wait  for  some  time,  for  no  one  can  force  events. 
Thus  far  we  are  all  right,  so  surely  we  can  leave  the 
future  to  itself " 

"I  can't  leave  him,  Peregrine,"  she  whispered. 

Janeways  took  up  the  little  gold  bag  that  hung  from 
the  splendid  chain  round  her  neck. 

"I  haven't  given  this,"  he  said,  "for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  to  a  woman  to  have  that  woman  prove  not  to 
deserve  it.  You  must  trust  me,  both  of  you." 

And  there  was  in  his  manner,  in  his  voice,  something 
so  fine,  so  generous,  that  they  did  trust  him. 

George,  he  said,  was  to  go  to  the  South  as  soon  as  he 
was  able  to  travel,  and  before  then  he  and  Cuckoo  should 
meet  many  times. 

"After  that,"  he  added,  "you  will,  as  I  have  said,  just 
have  to  wait.  It  can't  be  for  so  very  long." 

Loxley  held  out  his  hand.  "I  can't  tell  you,"  he  gasped 
out,  in  little  broken  sentences,  "how  splendid  I  think 
you,  or  how  grateful  I  am.  It's — wonderful,  and  I  don't 
even  want  it — it — you  know  what  I  mean — to  be  soon. 
It's  hard  to  explain,  sir,  but  I  should  be  happy  like  this 
for  a  very  long  time." 

Janeways  shook  hands  with  him. 

"I'll  come  and  see  you  to-morrow,  and  we  mustn't  any 
of  us  vulgarize  things  by  sentimentality.  The  chief  point 

450 


THE  BAG  OF  SAFFRON 

is   that    Cuckoo   has — well — you   know   what   I   mean." 

Cuckoo  knelt  by  Loxley  and  kissed  him  good-bye. 

"That  Cuckoo  has  deserved  the  Bag  of  Saffron,  you 
mean,"  she  added;  and  a  few  moments  later  Sir  Pere- 
grine and  Lady  Janeways  were  in  a  taxi  going  home. 

No  one  was  much  surprised  when  Lady  Janeways,  at 
the  very  end  of  the  ball,  appeared  again.  The  story  of 
her  sudden  indisposition  had  been  accepted  without  re- 
serve, and  when  she  said  good-night  to  her  guests,  every 
one  of  them  noticed  that  instead  of  the  splendid  ruby 
and  the  diamonds  she  had  worn  earlier  in  the  evening,  she 
wore  now  but  one  jewel.  Lady  Pelter  was  delighted. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  glad!  It's  really 
very  quaint !" 

When  the  last  guest  had  gone  Cuckoo  knocked  at  her 
aunt's  door. 

Miss  Flora  was  in  bed,  her  pretty  hair  screwed  up  in 
tight  wads  on  her  forehead.  She  wore  a  pink  flannel 
jacket,  and  on  her  little  nose  sat  the  owl-like  spectacles. 
She  was  reading. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  as  her  niece  came  in,  "and 
have  they  all  gone  at  last?" 

"Yes,  dear  Aunt  Flora,  they  Have  all  gone  at  last,  and 
I — I  just  thought  I'd  come  and  say  good-night  to  you.'* 

Bending  over  the  old  woman,  the  young  one  kissed  her, 
and  suddenly  Miss  Flora  gave  a  little  shriek  in  her  most 
piercing  voice. 

"Cuckoo  Blundell!"  she  cried.    "What  is  it?— it  can'* 

Cuckoo  smiled  at  her,  and  the  old  woman  was  struck 
by  the  new  expression  in  her  niece's  clear  little  eyes. 
"It  is,"  she  said. 


I 


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